You Said the Moon Would be Ours
by silhouettedredoblivion
Summary: After the events of Luther Braxton, Lizzie and Red deal with the fallout in their own ways - separately. Turmoil, misery, and pain soon follow. Eight months later, a knock on someone's door, and the decisions that follow, change the course of their fates. THREE- PARTER/Lizzington fic/AU Post 2x10/11/Complete :-)
1. All These Broken Pieces Fit Together

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist and am not affiliated with them or NBC in any way. Still no promises if Spader offered me his goods.**_

_**Please read first!**_

**AN: **I do apologize to any of you who were looking forward to **The Caresser** (if any of you were, that is lol) I know that **Kenneth Rathers** was and buddy, I'm sorry. My musings were lost on the story, and I honestly could not come up with any viable dialogue to use humor-wise. Maybe you and I could conversate on tumblr/FB and you could help me out? ;-) I haven't forgotten about it, and I will be going back to it in the near future. And to those of my **readers** **of** **The Silver Lining **and **Slip of the** **Tongue**: I HAVE NOT forgotten about these fics! RL plus other projects get in the way, but I am coming back to them asap I promise! This fic will be presented in **two parts**, with Part Two being posted just a few days after Part One.

As my dear friend **hestia-Prytaneum **so honestly put it, you cannot force yourself to write something if you either aren't 'into' it. Forceful writing can come out lazy and strained, and it's glaringly obvious. This story would NOT have been possible without her. I MUST dedicate this story to her—**hestia **and** firstmorningdew**! They have inspired me, been there for me, we have bounced ideas off one another until we were nearly cross-eyed, and talked for hours on end! I am so thankful for their friendship, their undeniable dedication to our ship, support, and to have them in my life, and I honestly do not know what I would do without them! Two truly uniquely amazing people!

**PLOT NOTES: **Two-Parter/Lizzington AU/Post 2x10 &amp; 11/ Lizzie DOES NOT find the Fulcrum

**Personal Request: **If you have NOT listened to **Radical Face's Nightclothes OR Snow Patrol's New York**, GO IMMEDIATELY TO YOUTUBE as soon as you can. I'm telling you, they are both 100% Lizzington.

**Rated M for strong language and sensuality.**

_Fic title inspired by __the song__** Nightclothes by Radical Face, **__which also inspired this whole damn story, Part Two in particular! I will NEVER be able to listen to this song again without thinking about the night of the fire!_

_Part One Title courtesy __of__** Snow Patrol – Daybreak**_

_Song lyrics courtesy of__** Snow Patrol - New York**_

ON TO THE STORY! Please review**!**

* * *

**You Said the Moon Would be Ours**

**Part I: **

**All These Broken Pieces Fit Together**

_If our hearts are never broken,_

_Well there's no joy in the mending._

_There's so much this hurt can teach us both._

_There's distance and there's silence, your words have never left me._

_They're the prayer that I say every day._

_Come on, come out, come here, come here_

_The lone neon lights and the ache of the ocean,_

_And the fire that was starting to spark._

_**I miss it all, from the love to the lightning,**_

_**And the lack of it snaps me in two**__._

_Just give me a sign_

_There's an end in the beginning_

_To the quiet chaos driving me back._

* * *

The weeks following (what some refer to as) the "Incident" with Luther Braxton, Lizzie had been resolutely fearful of getting too close to Red, apprehensive of him putting on his little "charade" of allocating any sort of feelings for her more voluminous than that of a colleague. The last notion she needed bouncing around in her brain while in such besetting proximity of him, was the veracity of declaring that she genuinely cared, only to discover that same instant he was solely seeking the Fulcrum during those fateful fiery hours of darkness twenty-six years ago, as still is to this very day.

At least, that was what he had allowed her to deduct. He stood by and let her conjure her own presumptions of what had transpired, no matter if the recollections of a scarred four-year old had been unreliable.

She wholly anticipated Red to hover over her as he consistently had since the commencement of their partnership. Only this time, she was determined to make him accept that she did not want his pretenses shoved in her face after the onslaught of horrors she was forced to endure. The knowledge of Red having been present the night her father was killed sent her splintered innermost self into an everlasting skirmish of maintaining dry tear ducts. Lizzie could no longer undergo the feat of being poised within arm's length of him.

He did no such thing.

Red kept a considerate distance from her, withdrawing his previously welcomed intrusions of personal space and consistently tender touches, allowing her to grieve her past traumas without his overwhelming presence lingering in her midst.

There was no scrupulous configuration of words that could possibly illustrate the hurt Lizzie felt slicing through the concealed vestiges of her being. When she had voiced to him that he never once cared for her, Red had left her suspended like someone threw her out of an airplane at thirty-seven thousand feet with only her emergency chute. He had pretended to care so he could use her as a means to an end for the unearthing of the Fulcrum's location. To save his own ass, as it were.

Red had stricken her with an agonizing realization upon reliving the horrendous events of that night, and she wanted him to prove her wrong. She had no other alternative than to feel like _something_ akin to a materialistic conquest, _something_ with no other bearing than the crux to the whereabouts of perhaps one of the most powerful pieces of data known in the existence of humanity.

That is right. Some _thing_.

A _thing_.

As if the vibrations of signals emoting from his dagger-like eyes, and the electrifying atmosphere radiating around them as she had stood frozen in place each and every time they were together over the years, were of no relevance or worth.

Then there was Uzbekistan.

_Jesus_.

Lizzie tolerated Red's continual inebriation so she could get through the weekend without strangling him, because in truth, he seemed a bit more jovial than usual, albeit heartbroken, following the mild murkiness of a few too many. She convinced herself that he was drinking because he duped himself into thinking he was on "vacation", being out of the states and away from the general worries the Post Office thrust upon his turbulent schedule.

It could not _possibly_ be because of her flagrant disparagement for him, or her refusal of granting him the satisfaction of being by her side every second of the assignment.

_No_.

On the other hand, Red had also behaved like a man bewitched by the woman he loves, shooting her moon eyes every opening that was presented.

She _had_ noticed.

The dinner.

The fucking baklava.

The Milonga.

While listening to the history of the Tango roll from his tongue like the serpent beckoning Eve to taste the Forbidden Fruit, she could barely look in his direction, fearing that her attraction to him would be detected. She was still supposed to be livid with him, after all, regardless of her desire to smother his face with her lips.

\ \ \ \ \ \

_Time, that's all she needs is time_, he would so contritely presume to himself.

Painfully sluggish months drag by along with the seasons.

Neither of them even consciously acknowledge the shifting weather.

Red honestly believed she would come to him late at night as she had in the past, longing for comfort and guidance since he was the only one in her life outside of Ressler and Samar whom she could confide.

But, she never did.

Many nights he spent sulking in front of a fireplace, gazing into the flickering conflagration that served as a sobering reminder of what he had done for her.

And what he had done _to_ her.

But, look what she had done to _him_.

She had smothered all of the rejuvenating light that finally had burst its way into the very essence of him, leaving his internal anima cold, despondent, and brooding. Even his innate craving for the opposite sex dwindled, his heart thwarting any stimulation he could potentially feel with another warm body pressed flush up against his.

He consumed his provisions without truly savoring them. In fact, the only grounds for eating was solely for his own survival, and so that Dembe would hold his tongue and not bitch at him every second of every day he spent hunched over a plate of food that was merely half eaten. He would knock back his amber-colored liquid in hours of darkness cringing in the shadows, without relishing in the trickle that used to delightfully singe his gullet along the way.

Life was dull.

Colorless.

Passionless.

Eventually, their strained relationship had begun drifting off into the Land of Bleeding Hearts, evolving into more emotional injury than Red could bear. The cold-shoulder treatment, Red could stomach. But, this? This was certainly the most unpleasant experience since the Incident. She was not expressing loathing tendencies any longer, but rather, heartbreak. It was evident to him that Lizzie was actually pining for him, all the while preventing herself from disclosing anything other than a professional demeanor.

Strictly business.

The sideways smirks Lizzie would shoot Red once she noticed his eyes were affixed on her while standing across from him in the Post Office would virtually stop his heart. She would disregard his repetitive staring most of the time, but at least she had begun acknowledging him when he would pose a satirical question, or when he would tell another one of his illuminating fables from his past that never ceased to leave her spellbound, even if she acted as if her face was made of stone.

In truth, Lizzie had craved not only his company but also, his propinquity. His undeniable scent. The raspy drip in the tenor of his voice. The way he would subtly prop his hand upon her lower back or grasp her arm tenderly with his strong albeit beautiful hands.

She had yearned for everything she knew Red to be, that is when he was willing to dip down the veil ever so gradually. His boldness alone was something she missed seeing on a daily basis. Their late night chats. Going over cases as they ate take-out while she sat in the floor next to him seated in the chair. The transitory glances they would bashfully relay to one another that were never noted verbally, only affectionately cheeky grins were exchanged if one caught the other gawking outright.

On several occasions, Lizzie could attest to Red glaring at her intently, as if he were absorbing every facet of her appearance and character, like he had caught a glimpse into her soul. She never once dared to confront him over his wandering, deliberate eyes.

She had been content then.

Blissful, even.

When she would ready herself for sleep during the wee hours of the morning, she became quite giddy as she fantasized about the visits that would trickle over into her dreams.

Pleasures of all five senses.

Scratch that.

Of all _six_ senses. There was also something _spiritual_ flowing between them. There would be a voltaic current that sifted through her nerve endings, all the way to the bone, and she still could not put a finger on it or categorically label it.

As time drew on without his existence in her personal life, all she could tortuously assume in the shadowy alcoves of her psyche was that perhaps, her worst insidious fears had materialized—maybe Red _really_ had only needed her for the Fulcrum. And maybe, _just_ maybe, he had already obtained it. She deliberated if that was possibly the reasoning for him never being in charge of the effort of approaching her once again. Or maybe he was just fed up with her hurtful accusations and scorn, finished with always having to make the initial step to meet her halfway.

Finished with _her_.

She experienced thorough disconcertion since her conflictions flourished into jarring revelations of the true nature of her feelings for him. What if he decided to walk away for good if she never approached him? She knew she could not endure being abandoned by a person whom she cares deeply for, especially one of such startling magnitude.

She was _terrified_.

Too many things have happened, and both of their hearts remained torn into fragments at their feet. The real inquiries that coasted endlessly in and out of Lizzie's mind was: How much agony can one person take before they are deemed truly broken? Irreparable? And how much pain can one person inflict upon another before it is considered unforgiveable? Irredeemable?

\ \ \ \ \

That is where their relationship remained presently, on the downward slope, the other side of their upheaval eight months to the day of their run-in with Braxton. Anger was no longer her emotional priority, but she was growing restless. Suffice it to say, she often spent extensive sleepless nights dejectedly unaccompanied in her crappy motel room, combating the overpowering urge to burst out in tears.

She was sitting in the half-lit room on her bed, cramming down the rest of her cold chicken fingers she ordered three hours prior, when she heard an unexpected knock on her door. Then she heard it again. And again.

Compulsiveness.

Impatience.

Desperation.

He promised himself he would not go to her, swore that the last decisive action he would take would be to show up on her doorstep, desperate for her presence to engulf him as it once had. Depending on the situation, Red understood that certain promises were made to be broken.

_You know the problem with drawing lines in the sand?_

Red was pondering the hour, realizing Lizzie may very well be sleeping. No matter. He has awoken her on several occasions and she never displayed the slightest hint of irritation, more of curiosity than anything.

He is banging on her door like a mad man with the newest jacket of their next Blacklister clutched in his right hand, the fingers of his left tapping his thigh with uncertainty as he waits for her to come to the door. Red brought the intel as more of a reassurance to her that he was not there to hassle her or spin another one of his dramatic tales that would leave her reeling. He knew telling her everything he had been weathering was a long shot, and a hurdle he may not be able to conquer since the very real trepidation of him chickening out flowed like poison through his veins.

He hammers his knuckles against the door again, louder this time.

"Alright, I'm coming!" Lizzie shouts, and is having second thoughts of the unwarranted fretfulness actually being behind the man who exudes nothing but calm confidence.

She extends herself on her tiptoes to peer through the tiny peephole situated just above her height.

_It's him. Shit._

She looks herself over in the squared mirror hanging beside the door to do a self-check of her garb. She had put on short blue-jean shorts and a candy apple-striped tank top after returning from the Post Office, and of course, was sans bra. Those things can be like a death trap in your sleep.

Her own self-effacing judgments advise her that she should at least slip on some pants.

She thinks better of it, and believes she is appropriate _enough _since the situation held every aspect of urgency.

Unlocking the deadbolt, she holds her breath, oblivious of the night Red has in store for her. Creaking the door ajar, she sees him standing there, clad in one of her favorite suits of his, the dark blue one. And clearly, his signature fedora he never leaves 'home' without. Her lips part and stay parted, jutting agape at the sheer spectacle of the anxiety-addled expression dancing across his face, affirmation in his bloodshot eyes before he removes it once more. Lizzie swallows, attempting to coat her throat in saliva, thwarting the ever-impending dryness that has made its way scratchily down into her trachea.

He is positioned in front of her, his flashing greenish-blue orbs containing a mysterious formula in which she cannot decode. Then, he speaks at last, "Lizzie. . . hi. Is now a bad time?" She catches a glimpse of the black dossier Red is clinging to in his right hand. _So it is about work, great. And here I was thinking I was going to get to bed early tonight._

He peers downward at her apparel, but does not comment on the way the tight shorts hug her curvy hips and upper thighs, or the fact that he is bearing witness to the hardening of her nipples before his eyes. _None of that now_, he demands to himself, titling his head a fraction so as to empty the thoughts from his brain out of his ears.

He quickly redirects his gaze back up to her eyes, anxiously awaiting her repose. The corners of her mouth upturn into a small smile, then retreat to something in the realm of apathy. "Red . . . um no. No you can come in."

Red shuffles gently inside, careful enough not to brush her as he goes by. He removes his fedora to place on the table, and then hangs his coat on the rack adjacent to the door.

The duo takes a seat at the cheap wooden table, probably only large enough to accommodate two people comfortably. Lizzie's instinctual radar keeps pinging, telling her his whole demeanor is muddled. He has not spoken a word since she let him in the door.

The file in his hands makes its way across the table to her, sliding it toward her folded hands and bumping into her knuckles.

Picking up the folder, she rolls her eyes as if it is nothing of importance. She turns in her chair a few degrees and slings it across the room, landing on the bed behind them, but not before a few pieces of paper go sputtering out of it to scatter here and there.

Red stares at her dubiously as his eyelids flutter open and shut at an alarming rate, unsure of what the hell she is doing.

"Something's wrong. You may think you can hide it from the world, but you can't hide it from me. Not anymore." Unable to lift his eyes to meet hers, he looks down at his entwined hands on the table, then back up to look past Lizzie at the blank nothingness of the television screen situated on the wall. Clenching his teeth fiercely, he knows he is being intentionally evasive, but he made up his mind as soon as he walked through the door that tonight was not the proper time to leap into an expressively exhausting declaration.

Chewing the flesh inside of his lower lip, he tilts his head a bit to redirect his focus on Lizzie. protruding his jaw outward once, then twice, unable to articulate a single noise as he looks into her earnest emerald spheres as he feigns his troubled features.

"Whatever it is, Red, you can tell me."

"Maybe later, Lizzie. At this moment, the only thing that should be disquieting to you or I should be Estavan Gomez. We only have seventy-two hours to go over this and get it right the first time. He is unlike any other Blacklister, Lizzie, in the sense that he was a child prodigy. With that information, along with his methods, it should be of great concern to you and to the Bureau's."

His air appears as it had the day he expressed the same concerns to her about the Mombasa Cartel. She assumes that this is something rather personal, and of great vitality to him, so she gives in unremarkably. She slants her head, giving him a knowing, "This is bullshit, but okay" expression. Lizzie waves her hand in front of her, motioning for him to proceed as she rises to retrieve the scattered remnants of Gomez's file.

She allows Red to drone on about the case, mulling over each grueling detail of the myths and methodology of Gomez. After a few tedious hours of making Lizzie's head swim, Red finally concludes when he notices her trying to stifle a yawn. He decides that he needs to let her rest, or else she will suffer the wrath of Harold in the morning for arriving late.

"I'm sorry for keeping you up so late. You should get some rest. I will see you in the morning, alright?"

Standing from his chair, his knees pop and crack from having sat for an extensive period in the awkwardly rigid piece of furniture. Lizzie plasters a phony grin on her mouth, recognizing that Red has yet to explain what has him so perceptibly distressed.

He retrieves his coat and fedora as Lizzie watches his movements from the chair, her heart pounding, pleading with her not to let him walk out that door.

She nearly launches herself across the room at Red, her feet acting on their own accord.

As were her limbs.

The totality of her damn body was malfunctioning as if she was trying to keep up with an out-of-control treadmill.

As he extends his fingers to grip the doorknob, Lizzie stretches out her extremities, grasping his left bicep, impeding him from exiting the room.

Red twists his head, dropping his line of sight to the hand on his arm. Sucking in a sonorous lungful of oxygen, his chest constricts with the utmost intensity he has experienced in a good while. As he peers deeply into her damp glimmering eyes, his soul aches. Her voice juxtaposes in his heart, tugging at the frayed throbbing while warmly washing over him like a delicate fabric.

"Red, tell me what's wrong."

Nothing.

"Please . . . ?"

Still nothing.

"And if you expect me to get some rest, then you have _got_ to tell me what's eating at you."

A genuine look of surprise skips across his worn features, wrinkling his forehead as his mouth flies open to remain unfastened for a beat too long, his pupils rippling in width like a rock thrown into a body of water.

Then, as capriciously as it materializes, it vanishes in the blink of an eye. Huffing a sarcastic snigger, Red counters, "Lizzie, the last thing you need to be concerned with is my state of mind, I assure you."

"Maybe so. But, just look at it as if it's solely for my benefit."

She cocks her chin outward as his gaze falters, earnestly seeking answers while screaming internally.

She is unmoving, feet firmly planted in front of him. _She is persistent as hell, I'll give her that._

A puff of frustration leaves the opening of his face, affixing his eyes on the small hole in the wall parallel to him. He gingerly plucks off her appendage that has now slid to the crook of his arm, leading it toward his pursed crevice, puckering his balmy lips against the backside of her wavering hand.

Lizzie is glaring at him as if he just grew another head, and it has begun conversing with her.

Stricken.

Surprised.

_Aroused_.

He smiles from behind her wrist, unbinding her palm gently as he turns on his heels to depart.

"Goodnight, Lizzie."

And just like that, he ambles out the door into the darkness of night.

She shakes her head incessantly, liquid pooling under her lids. _No, no he isn't going to do this tonight._

She snatches the weighty door, flinging it backward so firmly it ricochets off the wall. Lizzie sees him strolling toward his Mercedes as Dembe rolls down the passenger side window. She decides she cannot let him walk away, not after her heart and mind have been split like an axe to firewood over these past few torturous months. She steps out into the blustery October air, not even conscious or caring of her attire being less than intelligent for this climate.

"RED!"

He halts his actions, and turns on a dime. He slings his body around almost comically, and begins strolling his way back to her, irresolute of the conditions he will perceive himself to be consumed with next. Red has never been fond of unforeseen plights of duress, especially those which begin and end with Lizzie's disapproval.

He strides over to her, pausing short of her sockless feet with a curious appearance skimming around his crow's feet and forehead. "I need to tell you something." Red stays absolutely motionless, waiting for the worst possible declaration he could conjure up in his twisted mind. Lizzie looks down at his Italian leather shoes, sucking in a few whiffs of his intoxicating aroma.

"Yes?" He is afraid in this moment. A crushing impression of foreboding is starting to settle in his gut like a dreadful malignance.

She is nearing tears now, filling up her eyes so predominantly that there is actually a shimmer to them. A sharp pain in her sternum causes her to draw in a sudden intake of air. She recognizes this all-too-familiar sensation, and she usually couples it with an emotionally harrowing occurrence. Sniffing at her already-running nose, Lizzie knows she must advance with her avowal.

"I . . . had to tell you that, I need you in my life. I _want_ you in my life."

Red does not utter a sound as he looks into Lizzie's insistent sapphire eyes, unable to repress his disturbed expression any longer. Parting his moist lips in an effort to respond, he only snaps them shut once more. The nerve jerking under his left eyelid is becoming more remarkable with each ephemeral breath.

He narrows his eyes in an effort to keep the offending wetness at bay, but to no avail. The unshed tears simply dangle from his sockets.

Lizzie closes her eyelids to taper the rising tide of her seemingly inept emotion.

"I miss you, Red."

He gulps down the vexation.

The despair.

The regret.

The _fucking exquisite pain_.

Sinking into the hollowed-out trenches of his stomach, he feels as if he may be ill. Grinding his teeth while his mouth is shut, he is disgusted with himself, furious for allowing this to happen to them, for allowing them to transform into these two mutilated . . . _things_.

"Please tell me what's going on."

The epiphany is nearly too much to endure. He knows he cannot deny her this.

Not anything.

Not anymore.

There was a time where he once could without any reservations. After seeing how severely she is hurting _for him, _it kills every infinitesimal part of him that ever emoted the cold nature of his refusing to let her preview the man whom was once Raymond Reddington. That man, who could have solely used her as the primary means of his survival in the criminal underworld, and to stay one-step ahead of the feds, was no more.

He nods his head in one quick movement. "Let's get out of the weather, Lizzie. Good Lord, you are practically half-naked."

Enclosing his palm around her elbow, Red leads her back into her room.

Discarding his fedora once more, he holds it between his right forefinger and thumb, wafting it just above his knees.

Before he has the opportunity to shed his wool coat, Lizzie closes the distance between them, invading his personal space as he once had before the Incident occurred, interceding his lone position beside the table.

She is losing her footing in a suffocating, thickening pit of quick sand, and she knows it.

With mingling breaths, Red stiffens and does not dare move. She shifts her head, gazing into his stormy green eyes, not vocalizing a word, but her heart earnestly insistent with him all the same.

"You're right, Lizzie."

"Red, I—" Without warning, Red covers her mouth with the width of his fingers, holding them there as his sockets overflow, liquid sifting down his reddened cheeks and nose.

He has never gambled to touch her mouth, or show this type of intimate treatment that she can recall. Her posture solidifies, going stock-still, as their gazes never once waver. Lizzie's pupils widen with astonishment, and a sentiment she cannot quite pinpoint.

"Shhh. Listen to me, Lizzie."

Removing his hand, he runs it over his weary face, sensing the inevitable overdrive of anguish that he will yield to no matter how hard he fights it.

Lizzie grabs both of his arms at the bend, "Look at me."

He cannot.

"Red. . . "

He is tentative, but does as she asks. His gorgeously long blonde eyelashes flittering sporadically the more effort he exudes to smother the inferno that has ignited inside his chest.

Swirling.

Disorienting.

"I can't do this anymore, Lizzie. Not like this. Not in _this_ way."

This is unprecedented, because this is the first and only time she as witnessed Red actually allowing the salty wetness cascade from his eyes.

He begins to shake. His innards trembling, from his toes all the way to the crown of his head.

"I need . . . "

Enunciating his words is excruciating. The sobbing has yet to leave his mouth, but it is no use, because he knows they will come at an alarming rate out of nowhere.

"I need you to know. . . I need you to know that I'm sorry, Lizzie."

Eyes wide, she shakes her head, not really comprehending what he is trying to convey in the details of his apology.

Then, it hits her with such force it nearly knocks her to the carpeted floor of the motel room.

"I tried to save him. I tried."

Rivulets gush from her bloodshot spheres. She can hear it in his voice.

_Love_.

She knows he is referring to her father, that night, the night that changed the course of both their histories. Then she accepts it, she _knows_, he is not only expressing love for her, but for her father. Red cared for him, very much.

He _does_ love her. He _does_ care. Always _has_. Always _will_.

Lizzie gently cups the surface of his unshaven face, caressing his cheeks ever so gradually. He leans into her silkily smooth palm, lifting his hand to brace hers flush against his jowl.

"Don't . . . don't cry. Please . . . Red. Don't cry. I can't stand to see you this way. It's crushing me."

He is visibly quaking, forcing Lizzie's heart to shatter like a million shards of broken glass upon seeing him in such a heart-wrenching form. He is quite literally falling to pieces before her eyes.

His pitifully fraught moans of misery begin unhurriedly, like a piece of paper floating and swaying in mid air, then catapulting to the ground near the end. Red lowers his head in defeat as he mumbles incoherently, putting his hand over his distorted maw.

Finally, between half-sobs, he begs for her to understand, "Lizzie, the last thing I ever wanted since I walked into your life . . . was for you to believe I never once cared for you. Cared _about_ you."

The culpability overrides his need to grieve, too ashamed to look up into her eyes as he glares down at her bare feet faintly positioned over the top of his shoes.

Too ashamed for what he has done.

The hell he has wrought.

The destruction that haunts every corner of his restless mind while he lies in bed at night, feigning sleep.

_Swimming in immeasurable grief._

"None of this, none of it, the Fulcrum, the money, the list, the notoriety, even my _survival_, _none_ of it _matters._ Because if I don't have you? I am left with nothing. I am . . . _nothing_. Just a lonely, angry, old man."

Yes, maybe he is oversimplifying matters, but Lizzie receives the message loud and clear. She scrunches and twists up her face in agony, trying her damnedest to hold back the latency that threatens to escape her tight gullet, the knot forming there becoming intolerable.

He juts his lower jaw outward, settling for biting the inside of his lip as he resumes, "I had to tell you that . . . I am guilty of so much, Lizzie. So many unthinkable atrocities. The culmination of all the terrible events in nearly three decades has left my heart overflowing with detestation, and has for many years. But, your father?"

Lizzie holds her breath. She had believed, after all this time, all these months that passed them, he had not only killed Sam, but was responsible for her biological father's demise as well.

"You were in danger. He needed my help."

Red stops, squeezing his lids shut so tightly that it hurts. Bringing the butt of his hand to his brow, he grinds his teeth with underlying rage and compunction.

"I tried. God _knows_ I tried, Lizzie."

Her palms still remaining on his flushed skin, she glides her thumbs back and forth to remove the hot droplets that thoroughly manifest themselves, descending until her hands are sopping wet. Lizzie sniffles, her nasal cavity beginning to congest, foreseeing a migraine making its way into the temples of her skull but it matters not. The only matter of interest or concern to her in this very moment is that Red is a battle-worn ship that has run aground, no longer thirsting for that taste of the sea.

She realizes that she is the only woman who can repair his mangled heart, his busted emotional reservoir.

She is_ his_ second chance at life and love. At hope, and perseverance. At truth, and change.

The cries exiting his twisted maw come naturally now, as if he has done this many times. He is practically bent over, weeping like a child that someone has inflicted tremendous injury upon.

Truth be told, the only night he has ever felt his soul cave was Christmas Eve 1990.

After all of these years since that day, Red has imparted nothing but raw strength and intimidation with his set predatory scowl and ferocious tonality, that could wallop fright into the hearts of anyone who dare question or cross him.

He could talk the Devil into doing his bidding without a fair trade.

Never once flouting under pressure.

Never once granting himself the luxury of grieving, or allowing the healing light to overtake him once he would have been spent from the sheer exhaustion.

No.

But, tonight, the only thing he wants, is to weep in _his_ Lizzie's arms.

It is too much for Lizzie to endure.

Lizzie pulls him to her tightly, stroking the back of his narrowly shaved head as he muffles his bleats of torment in the dip of her collarbone. Hands thrown around her waist, he clings to her as if she could disappear into thin air, and this had all been just a simple conjuring of his own fractured mentality.

She shuffles backward, dragging him with her as she goes. The backs of her knees bump against the firm mattress, hauling him up onto the bed and into her side.

Red encases his arms around her midriff as she longingly drags her fingernails ever so sweetly across the backside of his head in a circular motion. He nestles his nose and cheek into her stomach, attempting to settle the tidal wave that has swallowed him whole.

"Shhhh . . . it's okay. It's okay. I'm here, Ray. I'm not going anywhere. Do you hear me? Never again. I promise."

He inhales deeply at the sound of his given name spouting from her lips, nearly drawing her tank top into his nostrils, and lets out a relieving gust of air. He is calming now, striving to decompress the crushing weight that he has succumbed to for the time being.

Lizzie persists with her ministrations, her lulling Red serving its purpose as she feels more than hears the rise and fall of his lungs leveling out, affording his sobs to reduce to mere whimpers and catches.

He shifts a bit, nuzzling his face back and forth over her midsection, causing the hem of Lizzie's top to hike up a few inches, revealing her ivory flesh. He turns his head, pressing a subtle kiss with his succulent lips on her stomach next to her belly button, causing her to quiver in response. She feels him admonish a smile against her skin as he gets comfortable, snaking his other arm under her back to hold onto her properly.

"Why don't you stay the night? I will go tell Dembe to go back to the safe house, and to bring you some clothes in the morning."

Red hesitates a beat before answering, his voice cracking through the rasp of affliction as he mumbles, "Lizzie, do you think that is a wise suggestion?"

"I just . . . I just don't want you to leave. Not after this. Tonight. And I don't want you or me . . . to be alone tonight."

Without removing himself from her waist, Red drives air from his nose and hums an accommodating and resounding, "Alright then." before extracting the burner cell from his pocket to dial Dembe. Lizzie sweeps over his arm, her firm globular breasts skimming inadvertently up against him as she stretches her hand to seize the phone from him.

Just as her unmistakably plump morsels glide over him ever so freely, they are gone again, leaving him gratuitously and incontrovertibly prone and unmoving. _So iniquitous, how in the world am I going to sleep next to this enchanting creature whilst holding back arousal? There is no way in hell that I will be able to combat her irresistibility_.

"I will tell him, don't worry." she acquiesces, casting him a sheepish grin as she pops the phone open with a snap.

Sitting aloft, he dispenses of his dark gunmetal-blue suit coat as Lizzie consults with Dembe about Red needing rest, and to bring him his attire in the morning. He abandons his matching vest and chestnut Italian shoes, storing them underneath the bed, folding the former on the foot of the mattress, then sticking his raven-tinted socks in the tops of his shoes. He disrobes from his pique fabric button-up entirely, revealing the chalky white undershirt beneath.

At this moment, he acknowledges that he must tread lightly.

He cannot permit her to seize even a fleeting glimpse of the mauled etchings of scar tissue that reside on his back.

Not yet.

He must be absolutely positive that his shirt stays on tonight, despite any impulsive scenarios that could occur in the form of ritualistic sexscapades or the art of tantric sensuality.

Pulling at his belt fastener, his eyes bounce up to Lizzie for her permission, "Is it alright if I—I mean I surely don't want to sleep in my pants. They become quite restricting and uncomfortable while I'm sleeping. Plus, they don't allow for much . . . room."

She simply smirks at him, staring with half-hooded eyelids, and tips her chin just enough for him to read her approval.

Lizzie sits there gawking as his strong, capable hands go to work while the phone is pressed against her ear. She listens to the clanking of his belt buckle hit the floor as he relinquishes his slacks, pulling them over his bare feet. Red is not even paying attention to her on the opposing end of the bed, while she burns holes into his entire body, her jaw sinking further than she thought possible. When he lifts his chin up at last, he is met with the most piercing azure-colored spheres he has ever seen, pupils vast with desire and want. Lizzie averts her wandering line of sight down to her hands situated in the dip of her blanket where her legs part, battling the fierce redness creeping up her torso and neck.

He may be getting "comfortable" enough to sleep in the same bed as Lizzie, but he is by all means still a gentleman, and refuses to take advantage of the otherwise tempting state of affairs.

He does not trust himself with her, nor does she with him.

Yet, this night, they are both willing to dance along uncrossed lines, bearing in mind all of the sorrow that nearly drown them in this very room.

After Lizzie hangs up with Dembe, she folds a pillow in half to place behind her head and back so she can comfort Red efficiently. Returning to his previous pose across her lap, Red pulls her to him securely, his lower half grazing her thigh. Nearly jumping at the contact, she attempts to bury her current fantasy of what is just on the other side of those wispy Egyptian cotton boxer briefs in the depths of her inquisitive mind, but to no avail.

They do not speak a word for long minutes; instead, Lizzie proceeds with running her fingers from the base of his neck, then over his fuzzy blonde bristles on his head. He exhales a syrupy purr that sends a jolt of arousal straight to the middle of her.

"I have to admit, I thought you were going to get naked there for a minute." Lizzie states playfully, chuckling half-heartedly at the mere thought of Raymond Reddington lying exposed in her bed. With _her_.

His giggling reverberates against her stomach, tickling her in the most sacred of places. _If he only knew_, she ruminates.

"I would oblige you Lizzie, but I didn't want to scare you half to death while you were on the phone with Dembe. He would have thought someone had broken in and began sodomizing you."

His retort sends her into a fit of chortles, shaking them both violently.

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry. Let's just go to sleep."

"Sweetheart, you can laugh all you like, because it is the most pleasant combinations of sounds I have _ever_ had the pleasure of hearing. It's like sex for my ears. _Very_ gratifying." he mutters drowsily.

"I will keep that in mind." she snorts, covering her mouth to prevent any further absurd outbursts. She decides to finally keep quiet, realizing the poor man is physically and emotionally fatigued. Their night had nearly brought them both to their knees, and it was an event forever to be engrained in Lizzie's memories for the rest of her days here on Earth.

Before she takes the initiative to bid him goodnight, Lizzie hears Red snoring adorably. _He is exhausted, my God. I have never seen a man so fragile. _A knowing grin flicks the corners of her lips upward as she looks at him adoringly there in her lap. It hits her that she has never seen him this still before, and certainly never this serene. He appears so boyish and youthful with his features unperturbed, and she surrenders to the urge to lean down a place a loving smooch on his temple.

Lizzie's final weary deliberations as the Sandman sprinkles his sleeping dust over her are that of Raymond Reddington's vulnerability and frailty, and her ultimate yearning to bottle this moment in a Mason jar as she would a firefly under a star-filled sky in the dead heat of summer.

* * *

**P.S. Please review, thank you! Part 2 will be posted by or on Sunday ;-)**


	2. All I Can Give You is Memories

_**Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist and am not affiliated with them or NBC in any way. Still no promises if Spader offered me his goods.**_

**A/N: ** I know, I know, it's a few days late and I sincerely apologize. Those of you who know me, know I had a bit of a rocky past few days in RL, so it made finishing this nearly impossible, but I finally did it! Sorry for the delay, bc everytime I say I'm going to post it on a certain date, something usually always hpns so no more projected dates, just approximate time periods in which I think they will be published! Thanks again for your support!

**THIS FIC has turned into a THREE-PART STORY, due to the lengthiness of it, and the story I so desperately need to tell!**

_Part Two title courtesty of __**RAIGN- Don't Let Me Go**_

_Song lyrics courtesy of __**Snow Patrol – The Lightning Strike**_

**Let's do this thing! Please review!**

* * *

**You Said the Moon Would be Ours**

**Part II:**

**All I Can Give You is Memories**

_Just for a minute_

_The silver-forked sky_

_Lit you up like a star_

_That I will follow_

_Now it's found us_

_Like I have found you_

_I don't wanna run_

_Just overwhelm me_

_I want to see you_

_As you are now_

_Every single day_

_That I am living_

_**Painted in flames**_

_**All peeling thunder**_

_**Be the lightning in me**_

_**That strikes relentless**_

* * *

Just before dawn, Lizzie's lids steadily flicker open at the satisfying awareness of someone touching her, humming in delight. Opening her eyes, the realization of her current predicament hits her like someone smashed her over the head with a cinderblock; she is sharing her bed with Raymond Reddington, and he is fondling her. _All_ over her.

She is facing away from him as he plays as the big spoon, softly stroking Lizzie's back and arms with his fingertips, then gently leaning forward to place hot opened-mouthed kisses in the curvature of her neck. She has not the slightest clue if he is fully alert.

She decides to test the shifty waters, rotating in his arms toward him. His eyes are shut, and he is exhibiting deep breathing consistent with a person copiously submerged in REM sleep, all the while proceeding with his advancements as grunts vibrate from the base of his esophagus.

Lizzie is irresolute, torn between deciding if she should reciprocate his movements, or merely exiting the bed, since he is obviously uninformed of his own actions.

Before she can determine as to which action to take, she senses the ever-growing stiffness pressing against her stomach. She blushes fiercely, thanking her lucky stars that he is unconscious, otherwise this would be one hell of an embarrassing dilemma in which to be positioned. She is shocked by her own opulent lasciviousness flooding hotly throughout her veins, not in the least repulsed by witnessing that his sexual appetite is alive and well.

Discovering her wiggling is doing nothing but egging him on, she freezes in place, not daring to move, holding her breathe to keep it from dancing across his face.

He persists with his resonant growling, tracing his fingers along her forearm, down to the sides of her midriff, finally resting them on her hips as slips a finger under the waistband of her shorts. She sees him lick his lips, and mumble a phrase that is indistinct to her ears.

Before he can progress any further, Lizzie concludes her decision with a sharp exhale through her nostrils, extracting herself from the sexual tension that she can no longer deny, nor would she want to at this point. She rises from the bed abruptly, shuddering the bed vertically as she gets to her wobbly feet. To her bewilderment, she had not disturbed Red's slumber, if she could even _call_ it such a thing, since he was groping her as if he wanted to take her in this bed here and now.

Tiptoeing to the bland kitchenette, Lizzie leisurely turns the knob to the faucet, grabbing a glass from the dish drainer. Hearing the shuffling of the sheets, she is startled as she turns swiftly, nearly spilling the water ubiquitously onto her and the floor.

"Lizzie, where did you go?"

Swallowing a huge swig of the refreshing liquid, she sets it down on the counter with ease, then whispering dotingly, "Red, I'm just getting some water, go back to sleep, okay?"

"So we're back to 'Red' now?" he mumbles drowsily.

He has his back to her, so she cannot tell if he is actually irritated with her or simply giving her shit per usual. She cannot help but to let out a derisive giggle, "Don't be a grouch, just go back to sleep. We have a few more hours before we have to be up. It's barely 3am."

And with that, Red is faintly snoring again. Lizzie shakes her head in disbelief, assuring herself that he probably will not even recall the short conversation that just occurred.

Picking up the tumbler of water once again, she pads over to his side of the bed to sit it on the rickety nightstand. She extends her hand, grazing his jaw with the backside of her supple fingers. She cannot help but to admire this man in his glorious sleepy state.

Or in _any_ state, for that matter.

How much she honestly loves him is tugging at her heart, beckoning her to resume what he started earlier, regardless of his unawareness.

His beautiful smile, the way he lights up like the sky on the Fourth of July when he sees her every morning, his strong arms, his stunning eyelashes that any woman would envy, his unmistakable bravado, his manner of sneaking and slithering out of any encumbered circumstance effortlessly, his richness for life, and ultimately, the way he looks at her.

The way he protects her from the world, giving her refuge from the storms that threaten to destroy them both.

And the list goes on and on.

Everything about him, she loves. And is _in_ love with, essentially.

That's right; she's _in love_ with Raymond Reddington, and it has taken her this long to figure it out.

Lizzie acknowledges that any kind of physical intimacy between them is too soon. They had just reconciled following elongated months of torment, after all.

But, she is past the point of caring. She wants this man, needs him, desires him, longs for him. Not only in the intimate sense but, also, in her life. She wants to _be_ with him.

Ceaselessly.

Evermore.

Or for as long as life will afford them.

As she stands there peering at his delectable features, she returns to her side of the mattress, raising the blanket just the right amount for her to slink in, being careful not to stir him.

Lizzie comes in such intrepid proximity of Red's face that she lightly brushes against his nose with hers. She is staring at him, intent on watching him sleep until it is time for them to start their day.

As tranquilly as he appears, she honestly does not wish to disturb him, since he needs the rest more than she does. She decides to stay as close to him as possible, while warding off the exhaustion that is quickly catching back up with her. Being close enough to snuggle with him spreads a lovingly tepid warmth in her chest. Discovering she has missed the simple subsistence of another human being's touch and nearness, Lizzie knows she has wanted this to occur between them for a very long time. Her eyelids shut on their own volition, drifting back into a dreamless slumber that she fought so hard to avoid.

A few hours later, Lizzie's eyes pop open with a start. As her heart pulsates like a drummer in a heavy metal band, she is uncertain if her alarm sounded, struggling to turn her head to see the time on her clock that is perched haphazardly on her nightstand. The sickly green numbers read 7:07. Blowing out a meager sigh of relief, she has woken up just eight minutes shy of her alarm.

Glancing back over her shoulder at Red as he remains dozing, the events of the previous night deluge her groggy perception. She shakes her head a few times with a beaming smile rolling the arc of her mouth distinctly, _Unbelievable. He sleeps like the dead if he's undisturbed, which is probably not very often, _she muses. Knowing she still has a couple of minuscule minutes prior to equipping herself for the lengthy day ahead of them, she slithers back over to the previous position she was lying in front of Red's charmingly handsome face. As Lizzie marvels in the robust broadness of Red's chest, her dirty reflections tempt her to do incredibly kinky things to this man while he is snoozing.

Repudiating the resistance of magnetism she is experiencing and her significant urge for intimacy, she drags her nails down the center of his chest, tugging lightly on his splendidly sexy hairs as she does it. She is trying to rouse him without being overtly annoying, or startling him. The last thing either of them need is for her to induce a damn coronary if he were to unexpectedly wake with Lizzie's mouth clasped down on one of his nipples.

Although enticing as hell, she pushes the notion aside momentarily.

With the side of his head sustained on the pillow with his left arm slid underneath, his eyes move to and fro promptly under his smooth lids. Lizzie knows he is dreaming, but she is about to pull him from whatever fantasies he is a participant in his head, and play their own out in reality.

She props herself upon her right elbow, curiosity becoming her newly found friend. Craning down her neck to position her face vertical to his mouth, she mounts her throbbing mouth over his. Slowly, agonizingly slow, she moves her fleshy damp muscle over his ripe bottom lip, sucking it into her mouth a bit. Then again, applying more pressure this time until she heeds to him inhaling sharply.

Raising his right hand to entangle his fingers in her disheveled auburn hair, Lizzie scoots her bottom half closer, grunting in ecstasy at his arousing reciprocation.

She mashes herself against him from her refined breasts, all the way down to her womanly center. Dipping her left limb under his right that is still entwined in her hair, she grasps her feverous fingers around the firm tissue of his hip.

Red is fully attentive, but uncaring of how or why Lizzie has managed to trip and fall on his face with hers.

He slips his tongue past her teeth, tilting his head to gain more efficient access to the burning desire residing in her mouth. Then suddenly, he becomes meticulously conscious of their actions, and the consequences it could inexorably mean for both of them.

He tugs backward unexpectedly with an echoing smack of their swollen mouths. Their breathing is ragged, chests heaving furiously, the evidence of his arousal making itself considerably known as it pushes firmly against Lizzie's thigh.

Resting his forehead against hers as his lids slide shut, he reluctantly speaks, "Lizzie, what are we doing?"

"What we should have done ages ago." She whispers seductively, her response being nothing short of unforeseen.

Puffing out a dubious laugh, he scales his head back onto his firm pillow, rubbing his face with his palms as if it would erase all of his escalating worries and consternations.

She is glaring at Red expectantly, dragging her fingernails up his happy trail and then resting them over his defined sternum. Lizzie looks at him with such hunger and longing, that he thinks this incredibly sensuous, erratic, stunning, sensitive woman could well be the death of him.

"Lizzie, I know you believe you may have thought this through, but I really don't think you have. Because, if we continue what you have started here, you know as well as I, that there is no turning back from this. Once it's done, it cannot be undone. It will forever _be_. So, years from now, or even tomorrow, if or when, or . . . _both_, that you regret becoming physically intimate with me, you will also reflect on the words that I'm expressing to you now."

Lizzie absorbs the not-so-new information Red is expressing, his actual trepidations of what their relationship could potentially become in the end. She also comprehends his approach, his point, but realizes she has played this scenario out incalculable times in her head like a never-ending rolodex, attempting to convince herself that he was not worth risking her career or her life over. But, she knows she was indisputably mistaken every single time.

Rolling over on top of him to straddle his waist with her legs planted on either side of his thighs, Lizzie places a finger over his mouth, "I know what this means. And I know about regret, Red. I know what it's like to want to turn the clock back and do things differently. But this? Me . . . and you? I think I would regret it if we _didn't_ take this path."

Eyeing her somberly, Red retorts, "I don't want to hurt you. I already have, many times. And as much as I want this right now, because my _God_ do I ever, I just need you to know that this moment? It changes _everything_. Not just the nature of our relationship, but our partnership as well."

"Thanks for stating the obvious."

"I'm quite serious, Lizzie."

"Look, in case you haven't noticed, I'm a grown woman."

"Boy, I'll say. Now, look who's stating the obvious?" Red states smugly, his fierce gaze drifting from the curve of her hips to her breasts peeking from the crest of her red tank top.

Smacking his chest teasingly, Lizzie begins grinding her thighs and hips into Red's stiffness that is pressing against her throbbing lower region, her wetness becoming more apparent by the second. An aching moan of need escapes his mouth, rolling his eyes into the back of his head as the weight of her on his cock begins to drive him mad.

"_Lizzie_ . . . " his voice rumbles like thunder, the affluent huskiness hardening her nipples, goading her to sink down on him harder.

He runs his strong fingers up her velvety legs, splaying his thumbs on either side of the inner thigh showing just below her shorts. As she slides against him again, his grip on her upper legs tighten to command her awareness to him.

Inhaling a resonantly steady breath, Red attempts to make Lizzie understand as their physical and emotional implementations start to outweigh the requisite for the words he must say before he makes stupidly-amazing love to her, "Lizzie, I want you. _All_ of you. I cannot simply have you this once, I forbid it. You are a woman, a queen, who deserves to be cherished every single day, kissed every single day, with your body being worshipped as the sacred temple that it is. Do you see?" Reaching his masculine palm out to grasp her soothingly beneath her jaw line to emphasize his point, he continues, "I cannot and will not be with you just this one occasion. Because you, my dear? Once I have _you_? I will never forget your taste on my tongue, or the feel of you around me. You, Lizzie, are perfection, and I have never cared for anyone the way I do you. I hope you see that now."

Red lowers his hand from her jaw, running his feverish fingers down her décolletage to stop a mere hair's breadth from where her womanhood resides. His words leave her breathless to say the least, and coupling them with the escalating orgasmic fury inside her nearly catapults her into sumptuous oblivion.

A devilishly, wide smile brightens her face, nodding in response to his admission. She acknowledges that she feels precisely the same as liquid glistens in her sockets a bit. She could never just have this man once, because frankly, it would destroy her if it occurred in such a manner.

Forcefully pulling her down upon him to gain more friction, Red lifts his ass from the bed to thrust into her teasingly, letting out a searing hiss from between his gritted teeth.

Lizzie begins panting heavily, knowing the only thing to taper her furious desire is to have him fill her to the hilt, over and over again. She rocks against him as their movements form a scorching rhythm, both moving up and down roughly to please the other.

But this is not the definition pleasure, not in the eyes of Raymond Reddington. This is only the beginning, and following him stripping Lizzie of her clothing, he plans to fulfill her every fantasy, to lick every tasteful sugary inch of her heavenly body and lap up every last drop of her feminine sweetness.

Being an connoisseur in tantra does not hurt either.

A terrifying thought skips across the forefront of his brain, and he prays that she does not ask too many questions as to why he refuses to remove his shirt. He pushes the thought aside. _We will cross that bridge when we get there._

She snatches off the offensive garment covering her upper body, pitching it across the room as she arches her back so Red can get a glorious view of the taut arches of skin affixed on her chest.

He hooks his thumbs under her shorts, stroking over her silk panties, sliding them underneath to feel the moisture there. Tossing her head back in pleasure, her mouth hangs wide from his wandering fingers between her folds, and from the strain of his protruding manhood that already has her on the brink of slipping over the edge.

Red reverberates a primal growl in the base of his throat as he becomes more than eager with Lizzie's teasing, however he is still absorbing every mewl that exits Lizzie's beautiful lips. They are both struggling for each breath, their need for sensual indulgence threatening to dangerously consume them both.

The throbbing in his boxer briefs is agonizing. He cannot stand it any longer.

"Come here." he growls zealously, the rumble of his cadence shooting a ripple of gooseflesh over her stomach and chest.

Lizzie bends downward, capturing his lips with hers. Reflexively, Red turns her over tentatively onto her backside, driving his weight against her, sashaying his meticulous tongue into the depths of her mouth passionately. Lowering his head to her neck, he sucks and licks her all the way down to the upper part of her onyx bra, splaying his mouth in every dip and crevice his orifice could possibly conform to on her delectable torso.

The pulsations of their hearts, coupled with the emphatic vocalization of their moans fill every corner of the room. If Lizzie had not been paying the least bit of attention, she would swear that their pulses were strumming in conformity. As their veins buzzed with exceptional intoxication, the smolder of their physical contact was something neither of them had ever experienced in their entire lives with another lover.

Electrifying.

Euphoric.

_Completion_.

He traces his fleshy damp muscle around the border, reaching underneath her to unclasp it. Red stops for a brief moment, taking in the sheer elation of her breasts. Humming richly in satisfaction, he draws one of her firm blossoms into his mouth, causing Lizzie to let out a thrilling whine of bliss.

Her hands do a universal waltz from his crown to his shoulders, then his face. She scrapes the back of his scalp with her nails, digging them in enough for him to suck in another fanatical hiss through his teeth. The sensitivity aching in her center is causing her to thrash about, the need for him to be inside her becoming so overpowering that she is seeing stars.

Just as he begins drawing circles on her tight knobs with the tip of his sweltering tongue, Lizzie's cell begins chirping from the bedside table. The whites of her eyes broaden as she halts her hands that are roaming his head, but Red seems unfazed by the shrill noise that is invading possibly the most delightful moment of both their lives. He lets her go with a smack, "Lizzie, shouldn't you get that?"

_Bastard_.

Smirking as she rolls her eyes gallingly, Lizzie mumbles profanities under her breath as she scoots over to the nightstand, tapping ANSWER on the phone's screen with her thumb. She clears her throat, as if whoever is on the other line will not recognize that she is on the verge of riding Raymond Reddington if she does so.

"Keen."

Red gazes at her lovingly from above, watching as her eyes dance back and forth, not focusing on anything of relevance.

"Liz, it's me. Has Reddington reached out to you about Estevan Gomez yet?"

_Shit._

"Yeah, he did last night Ressler. I am about to leave, so I will see you soon."

"You do realize it's almost 8am, right? You know how much Cooper hates it if we're late."

"Oh my God. Okay, we—I'll be there soon." Lizzie replies as she plants a palm over her frazzled face at her slip, nudging her fingers lightly into her brow

Hanging up, Red giggles as he looks into her fraught eyes, raising himself up onto his palms to steady himself over her, "You're late aren't you?"

"Yes. _Offfff_ course."

Red peers down at her tenderly, bending down once again to ravage her with his mouth. His kisses turn into soft loving nips, sucking her lower lip into his mouth ever so carefully. The kind of kisses reserved for couples who love one another without question, obligation or necessity.

"I'm sure Dembe is waiting outside, so I will tell him to bring in my clothes, and you can ride with me to the Post Office." Red says as he removes himself from her space, sitting upright on the edge of the bed.

Launching herself from the mattress, Lizzie digs through the closet for her attire, snatching her shoes as she goes to walk past him to the bathroom. Red shoots his hand out to take her by the wrist easily, "Lizzie, it's alright. I will tell Harold that we had other matters to discuss."

"I don't know if it's such a good idea if we ride together. Keeping up appearances, and all that. We _cannot_ have them even suspecting something is going on between us."

"Lizzie, I am pretty sure that they have been suspecting something other than a professional relationship for a while now. Things have not been the smoothest between us as of late, but you shouldn't worry so much. We will play our respective parts. The agent, and the criminal."

She smirks in frustration at him, blowing air upward from her mouth that sends her hair flying and pointing a finger in his direction. "Okay, well, don't say I didn't warn you. The last thing I need is to get fired and thrown in prison. And to never see you again. That would complete the picture."

His tone becomes calm and reassuring, "Sweetheart, they cannot do a thing without proof or unmistakable suspicion of sexual means. Relax. As long as we act professional, and keep it appropriate, we will be fine, I assure you."

Lizzie snorts, "When are _you_ ever appropriate?"

Red narrows his eyes at first, then his features soften, "Exactly." Winking at her just before she closes the creaky bathroom door. As soon as she is out of sight, Red plops backward onto the bed, shaking his head in disbelief at not just the idea of him and Lizzie's newfound intimacy, but at the fact that they were interrupted. By Donald. _I swear to God, that man has the worst timing in every given scenario._

_\ \ \ \ \_

Lizzie readies herself for their day in the bathroom as Red waves Dembe inside so he can dress in his explicitly-attractive daily attire. After the trio emerges from the motor inn, they head for Red's Mercedes to depart. The minute Lizzie slides in, she scoots to the middle of the seat, not waiting for Red to enter to do so.

As Red hops in and shuts the door, the close proximity clearly excites him as a full smile turns up the corners of his lips while he tilts his head toward her, "Well, this is _new_, and I must say I very much like the fact that you will be practically sitting in my lap while we are in the car, from now until the end of time."

Grabbing his right hand to extend it over her shoulder, she leans in close against him, burying her face in his neck as she wraps her arms around his middle, dying to straddle him right here and now.

"Pfft. I wouldn't get ahead of yourself, Romeo." Lizzie admonishes as she sniggers sardonically. Red gives her his best pouty face, then angles his head to rest over hers.

After a few moments, Red is unable to withhold his self-control and indulgence of Lizzie being in his arms, craning his mouth to whisper ardently in her ear, "I hope you know that you are staying with me tonight. I fully intend on taking you on every available piece of furniture, exploring every last inch of you."

Red slithers his tongue from the top of her ear, only stopping to suckle on the supple flesh her lobe. Shivering perceptibly, she sucks in a lungful of air as her lids flutter shut, "You have to stop it. We will never make it to the Post Office because I will end up making Dembe pull over on the highway, and then kick him out of the car."

Red giggles in her ear with his face against her hair, the vibrations of his deep tenor sending shockwaves of provocation over the surface of her skin, "Mmm Lizzie, I love the way you think. If that's what you feel should be done. . . "

She pinches his leg sharply, causing Red to let out a yowl that makes Lizzie chortle incessantly."You need to be good. We're almost there."

Red gazes at her, his deep sea green orbs giving her his best, "But do I have to?" appearance.

After coming down a notch or two, Dembe drives them into the city.

As they enter the Post Office, Red immediately decides to clear Lizzie of any wrongdoing for her tardiness as he enters Harold's office unannounced; informing the Assistant Director that they had a few imperative matters to sort through about the case prior to their arrival.

They still have forty-eight hours before Gomez's arrival in the states, so Red and Lizzie, along with the task force, decide to lean on a few of his local associates for more information.

Luckily, Lizzie had ridden with Red all day during their excursion, but keeping their hands to themselves was impractical, and an action neither of them wished to adhere. They exchanged extensive passionate gazes that held promises of continuing what they had started earlier that morning.

Tender, doting nibbles and pecks along with auspicious dialogues of seduction were traded more frequently as darkness fell, neither of them caring since they were both shrouded in the obscure shadows like a secret.

During the course of the day, the sole thoughts filtering throughout Lizzie's mind were surrounding that of the man perched next to her. Of course, where their relationship would go from here was among her mounting list of inquiries, and it was impossible to concentrate with them fondling one another for the past twelve hours. However, the lasting and profound ruminations that have also been flooding her psyche were that of the night of the fire.

Red is unable to inform her of the dreadfully harrowing details that night held twenty-six years ago, but she still needs more to go on. She still requires reassurance as to what role Red truly portrayed that night.

She acknowledges that he was there to aid her and her father, but to what end? And where does the Fulcrum come into play? It is enough to drive a lucid woman past the brink of psychosis, and she knows if she asks him, he will not crack at the mention of said events because of the eminent peril she could face. Her safety is of tremendous magnitude to Red, and she is actually more than grateful to have a man willing to take a bullet for her.

Or every bullet, for that matter.

Her notions are still jumbled as her inner voice bellows like a church bell, swinging her one direction then another. Simply going through that night play by play in her head makes her queasy. She realizes there is only one solution to the issue before her.

Arriving back at the Post Office around 9pm, Red tells Lizzie to go get her things, and he will be here waiting for her. Strolling her way hastily into her dimly-lit office, she eyes the stack of case files lying on her desk. Picking them up, she sets them in her chair with a thump, and grabs the thin folder with the name DR. ORCHARD written on the side tab. Opening it, Lizzie flips to the first remnant of paper that contains everything she requires. Digging out her cell, she snaps it open to dial, anxiously awaiting Dr. Orchard to answer on the other end. Then finally, on the fourth ring, she hears the distinct feminine voice for which she was searching.

"Hello?"

"Dr. Orchard, hi. It's Elizabeth Keen. Look, I know it's late, and your son Max is probably in bed, but this is urgent. I need your assistance."

"Elizabeth? Okay . . . I'm listening."

"I need to meet with you, immediately. Is now a bad time?"

"No, no. It's not. Max is actually with his father out of town with family. Do you want to come here or - ?"

"No I will come to you. Where is your office? Where you operate? I could meet you there instead?"

"Um, it's 363 West Braddock. Elizabeth, what's happened? Something has changed . . . "

Fidgeting with her messenger bag, she tosses it over her shoulder, flipping out the light as she exits her office.

"Yes, things have changed. I will explain when I get there. And don't worry, you will be fully compensated. Thank you so much for doing this. I'll be there in about forty minutes." Before Dr. Orchard has the opportunity to reply, Lizzie hangs up, shoving her phone into her back pocket as she runs to the elevator door.

Emerging from the external door of the task force's headquarters, the sole deliberation disquieting to Lizzie before she reaches the charcoal black Mercedes, is that she has to identify a rational excuse to depart from Red for a few hours, after the intensely historic day they have experienced together. Right _now_.

* * *

**P.S. Thank you all so much for your lovely reviews/follows/faves! PLEASE PLEASEEEE REVIEW! Part III will be posted asap! :-D**


	3. Nightclothes

_**Disclaimer: Still don't own The Blacklist and am not affiliated with them or NBC in any way. And yet still no promises if Spader offered me that fantastic ass of his.**_

_**WARNING: THIS FINAL PART IS LOADED WITH M-RATED SMUT!**_

**AN**: Bet you guys thought I wasn't going to finish, huh? Lol well THIS IS THE LONGEST CHAPTER I'VE EVER WRITTEN, you have been warned, so clear your schedule for the next HOUR, grab a drink and a snack! Again I want to thank **hestia-Prytaneum** and **firstmorningdew**. Love you both, my sistas ;-) ! And **tore-my-yellow-dress**, love you too girl, you're amazing! If you haven't read her smutty birthday present for me **Love Me Lights Out,** YOU MUST!

**FrostyFingers** and **redisthenewblackington,** this part is for you two, so you both can no longer blame me for anything hehe and yes I know it took me long enough but crap, this last chapter is over 12,000 words!

OH and **if anyone likes Ressler**, you will hate me for the mentioning of him in this part, I promise you! It's just a story, right? But I did have a lot of fun writing that bit.

**Plot Notes:** _**Also small references to Red and Lizzie's conversation in 2x16!**_ _**But still AU after 2x10-11**_

**Song lyrics, Story title, and Part III title** **courtesy****of**_**NIGHTCLOTHES by RADICAL FACE!**_

**Song lyrics in story are from**_** Tougher Than the Rest by Bruce Springsteen, 1987**_

_**ALL mistakes are mine!**_

* * *

**You Said the Moon Would be Ours**

**Part III:**

**Nightclothes**

_We crept from the room  
The moonlight spilled down the hall  
And I tiptoed with you  
Then we climbed out the window  
And there in the yard  
Our nightclothes blowing in the breeze  
__**And you looked up at the sky  
And said the moon would be ours**_

And all this time I hear those words like bombs in the distance  
And oh my mind, I can still smell the rain in the air

_**But time's gone by  
And I'm not the kid I was on that evening  
And somewhere inside  
I hope you still see me just the way I was before I walked away  
**__  
Mud on your dress  
Blood stains on the knees of my pants  
And we went in search of the moon  
'cause you said that you knew where it slept in the day  
So we gathered up our tools:  
A sling-shot in case it ran for the sky  
And a blanket from your room, the one with no holes  
So we could drag it all the way back home_

And you said when we got it back  
We would cut it in two  
And we'd wear the hide so magnificent  
And then I could control time for you

_**And I still hear the way that you laughed  
When you found I believed you  
And I could still feel you pull on my arm  
When I was too afraid to go  
**__  
And all this time I hear your words like bombs in the distance  
And my, oh my, I can still smell the dirt on our hands_

_'cause in my head_  
_You're still alive, you're still alive_  
_And I know that it's a lie_  
_But it's one I like, it's one I like_

* * *

Stopping short of the open car door, Lizzie slides her messenger bag from her shoulder, handing it to Red. She stands there stoic, unnerved at the idea of leaving him in the current light of their unresolved tension in the form of carnal sin that bellows within her. He leers up at her from his seated position, with his brows crinkled in confusion, eyes darting from her sapphire orbs down to her mouth that is hanging ajar.

Lizzie eludes to their morning together, and how eagerly she had wanted to just lie there with him and dismiss the hold all the horrors their world dangled over them, along with the obligations they were due to uphold in service to the cause.

The list.

The monsters.

Savagery and damnation.

The events of that momentous day tugged at her conscience as Red burrows his eyes passionately into hers. _Who was the man on the floor? Was it her father? Red? Another man whom was there to harm her or take her away?_ The questions wound the cogs inside her mind, stirring her gut like a witch's concoction, with her frayed skin being the cauldron of something quietly brewing within her.

"I'm sorry but, there are some things I need to take care of here. Ress is bitching about the stacks of paper work we have, so I really should stay here and help him finish up."

Red narrows his gaze at her skeptically, hearing a slim intimation of subterfuge in her voice, "I'm beginning to construct the theory that Donald was molded in the image of Emperor Nero. He sure does _love_ to interrupt the most favorable of moments. I thought he had stopped trying to ruin my life once I saved _his_ during the debacle with Anslo."

Cocking her head as she snorts an incredulous snigger, she tucks a wisp of flailing copper hair behind the curve of her ear, "RED?! Emperor Nero? That's pretty extreme don't you think? He was a demented tyrant who married his stepsister and kicked his second wife to death! Not to mention—"

"Allegedly. To be fair, his father Gnaeus set the example, and insanity was as common among them as houseflies are to us. He was a jackass. He did at least one good deed, however; he reduced taxes. But, I have always been intrigued by his discouragement of living a luxurious lifestyle. I mean, who has time to be frugal, anyway?"

Red finishes with one corner of his mouth smugly upturned. Seeing that Lizzie is taking his cynical (albeit sassy) manner with such ease, it becomes therapeutic to his self-image. In his mind, harnessing the ability to actually _be_ himself comfortably around Lizzie and say the most outlandishly inappropriate comments was something to be cherished. Although his elevated absurdity was a self-inflation of his actual persona, he still basked in the joy of teasing Lizzie in any way possible, even if he did have a twisted sense of humor.

"At any rate. Would you like me to stay with you while you finish? You know that I am quite good company to have around when there's work to be done."

_Shit_. _Think, Lizzie_, she screams internally, attempting to act as nonchalant as humanly possible.

"Yeah, that's what I'm afraid of, then I won't get anything finished. Why don't I meet you back at the safe house at say—," Reaching down to grasp his wrist, she draws it up toward her face close enough to see the skinny hands of his posh Rolex.

As his reservations are forgotten momentarily, the countenance unfolding on Red's features is that of a boy fascinated for the first time by a girl who suddenly burst into his existence, except he had been the one who had done the invading.

"—midnight? Is that too late for you?" Sighing in resignation, Lizzie tenderly slides her hands to his strong fingers, entwining them in her own, bringing them to her face so as to give him the initiative to touch her there.

His eyelashes flicker in provocation when his hands make contact against her smooth rosy flesh, exhaling through his nostrils in a huff, "Ha, Lizzie, I'm not _that_ old just yet, and I don't sleep very often. Of course, that is fine. Would you like me to send Dembe back here to get you then?"

Releasing his hand from her face, Lizzie places a few feet between them as she prepares to walk back into the Post Office's entryway, glancing back over her shoulder so maybe Red would take the hint.

Lizzie clears her throat, a sensation like torrid sand grating the inside of her mouth, "No, it's okay. I will catch a cab. Or I can just take one of the Suburbans. So, I will see you in a few hours?"

Red senses something is awry, but fails to comment. He decides he is just being unreasonable, and that his intuitions could possibly be the victim of oversensitivity due to the last twenty-four hours of emotional distress, coupled with the release and elation that was swimming in the forefront of his mind.

Parting his mouth, his top lip quivers long enough for Lizzie to take notice. She knows if she does not get moving, he will be asking more questions, and she will not be able to provide _any_ sufficient answers. He nods sharply once, then directs his gaze to the headrest in front of him. Lizzie feigns an excited grin as she revolves on her heels to return to the elevator.

"See you then." She shouts back over her shoulder, only rotating her neck a few degrees for Red to catch a fleeting glimpse of her reddened cheeks.

She hops inside the lift and witnesses Red and Dembe pull away. Peeping her head out, she looks around frantically, digging into her pocket for the keys to the Suburban.

If anyone were to observe her striding across the parking lot in such a frenzied fashion, they would swear she was headed out on a call. Well, this situation could be classified as such. It was just as critical in her mind.

Rolling through downtown Alexandria, Lizzie recites the address to herself as she eyes the navigation system warily, hoping this is not going to take up half the night. She is desperate for answers. But, she is also helplessly desperate for _Red_.

Coveting.

Desiring.

_Hungry_.

An unquenchable thirst churns within her as she grips the steering wheel so hard that her knuckles flash white, acknowledging to herself that she will not be sated until she ultimately _has_ him.

Lizzie pulls bumpily into the parking lot of the office building just outside of town, tires screeching to a halt, nearly scraping the undercarriage of the vehicle as she jerks the wheel. She jets the door, virtually shuddering at the sheer concept of taking the voyage back to the horrific experience she withstood as everyone stood by to watch, as they would have a film or play. Stomach churning, she gingerly twists the knob to find it locked. She raps her knuckles on the hard wood, and restively waits for Dr. Selma Orchard to let her inside.

She sees the shadow of a figure just on the other side of the blinds blocking her view of the interior. Lizzie's acquired instincts switch on, grappling for her sidearm. _Better safe than sorry_, she notes watchfully.

The door cracks open.

"Elizabeth? Come in."

Lizzie takes one last look behind her to ensure there are no tails following her, or that Red and Dembe have traced her to this location, then holsters her weapon as she steps into the foyer.

"You sounded troubled on the phone. What's going on?"

Lizzie stares down at her feet, and then back up Selma. She feels ashamed that it has come to this, to her concealing information from Red yet again, and dragging this considerate woman out in the middle of the night for something so seemingly fickle.

"I, uh, I need your help. I need to regress again. I have to go back. There are still answers I need, and you are the only one who can help me."

"Elizabeth, I told you, your memories have been tampered with. Altered. They are . . . muddled, at best. What makes you think what you will experience will be the truth? Let alone the physical and emotional damage it can inflict—"

Lizzie cuts her off, shaking her head continuously as her pink-rimmed sockets expand, "I just . . . I just _know_. Something has been telling me all day to do this, Dr. Orchard. I nee—I have to see. I have to _try_."

The doctor gulps harshly, dipping her chin to accept Lizzie's rationalization as she looks away, "Very well, then. Come on. My workroom is in the back."

"Workroom?" Lizzie questions inquisitively, both eyebrows ridging toward her hairline. The woman lifts her hand, beckoning Lizzie in her direction through a set of double doors similar to what one would see in an emergency room.

Passing through the doors, they enter a room reminiscent of a family physician's treatment area with cream-colored walls, complete with an exam table, a reclining chair, and EEG and EKG machines.

"I thought you only made people . . . forget things? What's with all the equipment? Looks like Braxton has been in here . . . Jesus."

"It's funny you should ask. Assisting my patients with burying their past traumas had become counter-intuitive, in my opinion. I do the opposite now: helping my patients confront said traumas head-on. Many people know that facing your fears is the only way to conquer them. To rise above it and move on with your life, lest it hinder you further. I'm sure you understand that logic more than anyone, because our memories, Elizabeth? They are what make us _who_ we are."

Lizzie nods knowingly, crossing her arms as she listens to the woman, anxiously awaiting the beginning of what she believes will forever alter her perception of her own identity. Flipping off the overhead lights, Dr. Orchard directs her to the chair to the left of the weakly lit room, the expanse of the remaining area that surrounds her being only bright enough to see the edge of the chair's murky-olive leg rest. Lizzie's heart has already begun to thrum, pulsating so hard that she notices her chest bounding. She takes a resounding breath to compose her already-unfettered nerves. Positioning herself properly, she pulls down on her jacket to straighten it, then abruptly unzips it to discard the now useless item of attire.

Selma steps next to her, placing the sticky rounded ends of the leads on her temples and chest from the machines that will examine her vital signs and neurological activity during her memory regression. Backing away from Lizzie, the doctor trifles through the drawer of her med cart. Retrieving a syringe and two vials of clear liquid, she informs Lizzie that one pharmaceutical is sodium pentothal, and the other a relatively strong benzodiazepine, and that she will not be administering as large of a dose as she did in Alaska. Since Lizzie is prepared for what comes next, she enlightens the woman as to which memory she wishes to revert.

"Are you sure you want to do this, Elizabeth? Because once I inject these sedatives—"

"Please, stop. You can't talk me out of this. Just do it." Lizzie recites to her softly as she reaches out to touch the doctor's forearm that is holding the needle. _Déjà vu_, Lizzie ponders.

It was strange to imagine that this small thing made of plastic and stainless steel contained a combination of liquids that could hand her the keys to which door to proceed through in her life. It was startling and quite ironic, to say the least.

Her eyes begin to moisten while the quaking in her limbs becomes more aggressive the longer she waits for the inevitable plunge into the deepest alcoves of her splintered recollections.

"Just procedure, sweetheart. That's all. I don't want you to feel obligated for any reason. Ready?"

With that, Lizzie nods promptly and pinches her eyelids shut, combating the overwhelming visceral impulse to flee as the needle pierces the tightened flesh of her upper arm.

A heavy sensation settles within Lizzie's core as the drugs flaring their way throughout her veins start to pinball straight to the neurotransmitters of her brain, elevating her dopamine levels at a staggering rate. Euphoria slams into her head and torso, taking all but her general sense of direction away from her. A few distressing minutes pass, and then, nothing.

Darkness.

Deafening stillness.

Then, a voice emerges from the shadows, "Elizabeth, I need to take you back once again twenty-six years ago, to the night of the fire. You will start to feel yourself become weightless, as if you were a feather, so light that you drift into the air. With each breath, you become lighter and lighter, floating into the sky. I want you to picture what happened that night, but when you open your eyes, you will immediately be taken back inside the burning house, and to the man you witnessed lying in the floor. Can you do that for me?"

She mumbles, "Yes" in a child-like voice as the woman coaxes the four-year old to the surface of Lizzie's lucidity.

"I am going to count backwards from five, and once I get to one, you will awaken there. In the house, surrounded by flames."

Under Lizzie's fluttering lids, she observes flashes of conflagration and smoke, in and out of focus like she is being fed brief snapshots of the fiery destruction from an adequate distance.

"Five."

Closer now, the smolder flicks hot against her skin.

"Four."

She covers her ears as she hears screaming from an innocently small voice in the expanse, but comes to the realization that the shrill noises are being emitted by the smaller version of herself standing within arm's length of her.

"Three."

The inferno comes into focus, clarity striking her so forcefully that it knocks the air out of her, compelling her lungs to constrict painfully. She releases a whimper from her distorted mouth while Selma continues.

"Two . . . _one_."

* * *

The flames are in such close proximity that Lizzie can feel the hair being seared from her forearms. The sickening whine of the house's warping walls flood her ears as she glances around for evidence of human life that could be of assistance. Just when she doubts she actually witnessed a dying man in the floor in her previous trance, he comes into view through the licking blaze surrounding her.

The little girl named Masha steps forward with her stuffed bunny rabbit that is crisply charred around the edges of its furry nubs, and kneels down next to the unmoving form in the center of the floor. Lizzie creeps ever so vigilantly, as watches as her past self yell at the man, grasping his shoulder to shake him awake as best she can. His tattered shape comes into view, his jacket no longer whole, but rather embedded in smaller fragments into his back.

Subcutaneous tissues are exposed. Embolisms and corroded muscles sprawl across the length of his shoulders, stretching down to just above his tailbone. The raven-colored fissures of raw skin that seem to be sprinkled over his backside remind her of crime scene photos.

Lizzie covers her mouth to withhold a laden sob, the whites of her eyes widening, shell-shocked by the troubling scene before her.

This is not the same man she saw previously.

_This_ man has an abundant thatch of golden hair that is scorched at the bottom of his scalp meeting the back of his neck.

As Lizzie's doubts swirl her train of thought, she sees him lift his head erratically toward the frightened girl.

"Mister! Mister! We have to go!"

Lizzie's spine goes ramrod straight as he turns his head, straining to hear what he tells the child, "The—they left yo—you?" Little Masha nods sorrowfully, pulling on his arm to encourage his movements.

That _voice_.

She _knows_ that voice, but does not recognize his face.

That is _Red's_ voice.

Lizzie realizes she has no bearing on the catastrophe occurring in front of her, she is merely a spectator that has been slung into the depths of events she cannot alter or repeat. The vice grip-like clench around her heart forces out an acute whine as she witnesses the incontrovertible physical torment Red must be experiencing in this moment. Not to mention the ostensible endless weeks of desolation and despair that followed.

Red cagily places his palms down on the hot, contorting floor, mustering every last ounce of strength he has left within him. Every single infinitesimal speck of will power finally reaches his limbs, adrenaline overtaking his body. He pushes aside the psychosomatic torture burdening him by imparting the little girl in with need his undivided attention, bones clattering and popping as he positions himself onto his knees.

Lizzie sees him rise slowly as she shakes her head in utter disbelief and astonishment.

"Impossible." She chokes to herself while covers her mouth and nose, attempting to filter the smoke pouring into her lungs. She has never really given Red much credit for his physical abilities, knowing he was capable of acts that typical men could not tolerate.

After naval training and endless techniques he acquired over the years during his travels to defend himself, he was able to absorb self-discipline and restraint from every instructor who ever coached him to make him more durable than he appeared.

But, this? This was ungodly strength that she was seeing from a man with an inconceivably injured frame.

"Come—come on. I have to get you out of here. Ri—right now."

Teetering back on his heels as he stands upright, he releases a blood-curdling shriek at the searing pain that plows through him like lightning exploding a tree into bits. It is unbearable, but he knows he must push through it regardless of him praying for death's bittersweet extrication.

He _must_ stay fixated on the scared little girl in front of him rather than the relentless storm tearing through his nervous system.

Lizzie sees Masha cover her ears as she does the same at Red's notched screams. Getting a hold of himself, he clutches the child's hand and looks around hysterically, "We have to find a way out." All critical thinking flees from his mind, problem-solving turning into a sporadic bitch since he is afflicted to such an extent.

No longer than it leaves his mouth, Masha points as she yells, "The window!"

Rushing over in a flurry of panic and perplexity, Red hobbles to the window frantically with Masha in tow, unlatching it to push it open as Lizzie runs over to keep up with them.

There is no way to pause what is happening or slow it down, so Lizzie knows she has to follow them closely.

A voice bellows from the distance as Lizzie scrunches her face that is replete with devastation, "Elizabeth, what do you see? Can you tell me?"

Lizzie mewls a pitiful sob from the chair in the doctor's office as her bottom lip quivers, "We have to get out, we have to go through the window. He is with me, he is leading me out, saving me . . . "

"Who is Elizabeth? Who is saving you?" Doctor Orchard pleads, genuinely concerned for Lizzie's well-being and overtly aware that the man she is referring to could very well be Raymond Reddington.

"Red. It's _Red_," she finishes breathlessly, exasperated by the sudden vision that dances across her brain waves, digging her nails into the cracked arms of the seat.

The instant Red places his hands under little Masha's armpits to pick her up, Lizzie's awareness unhinges as she stands there behind them, unmoving.

Lizzie disappears into thin air, then without hesitation, she is glaring into the eyes of Raymond Reddington.

She has merged her own conscience with her younger counterpart, observing everything through the gleaming and frightened eyes of a four-year old.

It is almost as if Lizzie is being held hostage within this tiny outline of her child self, powerless to move or talk on her own volition. She is quivering as the pulsating muscle in her chest knocks against her ribcage.

"I'm going to pick you up now, and we a—are going to have to jump out of this window, okay? Don't b-be scared. I'm going to break your fall. I _promise_ you won't get hurt."

Little Masha's mouth flies opens on its own accord without the assistance of Lizzie's perception, slumping the corners of her lips into a nervous frown, "But you will get hurt . . . "

Fabricating an encouraging smirk, Red hoists the child into his arms as he feigns a hopeful expression, biting back the urge to yelp again. He straddles the windowsill, tossing his trembling legs across to dangle them on the exterior of the large white-framed opening.

"Look at me. It's okay. Are you ready?"

Staring worriedly at him, the girl nods as she scrunches her thin lids shut, tucking her tiny crown under his chin as she swathes her slender arms around his neck.

Hopping from the sill, gravity does the rest as Red turns over at the last second. He receives the brunt of the impact on his left side with a sickening thud, Masha landing on top of his sternum. The swift pressure strikes the wind from his chest cavity, requiring him to gasp sharply, struggling to regain normal respiration. Inside, Lizzie knows he has broken some ribs and psychologically cringes.

He does not move for several seconds as little Masha crawls from his arms in order to turn and face him. She glances around to see the ground and her surroundings completely covered in snow. _At least eight inches_, Lizzie mentally notes.

Masha crawls over to Red when he groans loudly, unsteadily pushing himself up onto his left side to check on the girl, "Ar-are you okay? Did you get hurt anywhere?"

Masha shakes her head harshly as her mouth flinches, "I burned my hand but I'm okay, but you're _not_. You have ta' go to a doctor, mister. It's bad. Your back . . . is very _bad_."

As her dismally-red nightgown with acadia-white lace shimmies back and forth in the stinging winter breeze, the girl sits back on her haunches next to Red as he props his head against a mound of snow adjacent to them, glancing over at him worriedly every so often. His chest rises and falls shallowly, the distressing groans coming more often as the adrenaline recedes in his blood.

Little Masha is legitimately worried for this man as she stares down at the funny-shaped burn that stings her petite wrist with fervor.

Lizzie's heart is being trampled by the sobering veracity of this man being Red.

As he lies in the snow for a moment to gather his composure as best as he is mentally and physically capable, he readies himself for what he must do. His overbearing lids slip shut with dreadful fatigue as he senses something petting his cheek with tepid air cascading around him.

"Mister, you have ta' get to a doctor so you will be okay," her tiny cold fingers press against his face as she hovers over his crumpled, tremoring body, her messy chestnut curls flittering in her face as she looks down on him. Her little fingers pat his cold cheeks a moment, almost in recognition as to what his fate could possibly become.

Masha scoots back to her previous position to wait for him. She is not sure what to do, or how to feel. She is merely a child, and does not know if she should try to find someone to help them both. Her sense of isolation is devastating, the realization of losing both of her parents smacks her between the eyes as her teeny bottom numbs under her. Even the limited rationale of a four-year old can connect the pieces of never being able to see her parents again due to the destructive and seemingly alien forces that ripped them from her tonight.

Red's lashes fly open at the sound of wallowing misery pouring out of her. The incessant sobbing batters his being in this moment a far cry more than his scorched muscle tissue ever could.

More than his fractured ribs.

More than any horrific physical torture he could ever sustain. And _he_ feels responsible.

He really does not know what to say to console her, because nothing he could _possibly_ say or do could recompense for what has been stolen from her. Struggling to sit up as exquisite pain radiates throughout his entire body, Red heaves his mutilated self upon his elbows as he angles his body closer to extend a shuddering arm toward her. He curls his pinky finger around the scratchy fabric of her fading nightclothes, tugging on it sharply until she removes her hands from her blurred, wet sockets to scan his crestfallen features.

Meanwhile, Lizzie just _is_. She is existing in this form, but all she can do is scream within the vast expanses of her soul. Desiring so badly to drift back to reality, to wake the hell up and repossess her own form that survives in the sufferable realm of mentally ill sociopaths who kill others out of boredom and vengeance, and government agents who combat their own demons in the darkness.

She wants to make his skin new again and return to him.

Back to the Red who no longer bears seared flesh.

Back to the Red who would be smiling in front of her, making her chuckle at his ridiculous wordplay.

Kissing her lips.

Encasing her in his solid arms.

Why could she not just have gone back to his damn safe house with him in the first place? She could be making love to Raymond Reddington at this very moment, but instead, she is _here_, in this shitstorm of a nightmare.

Priorities shift during desperate times, but she is unwilling to forgive herself for misguiding Red while maintaining her self-righteous need for answers.

What comes next seems to tilt Lizzie's world on its axis.

Gravity shifts.

Time slows.

Red swallows roughly as his thick tongue brushes against the inside of his cheek to attain moisture, "He-hey listen to me. I know you're sad right now, I know you feel all alone, bu-but you're not. You have me. And I might be hurt but, I ha-have _you_. Everything is going to be okay. D-do you know why? We are strong, both of us. You and me, together as a team? We could do an-anything. Have . . . anything—"

Lizzie's awareness explodes into the last grains of sand dropping into the hourglass, drawing parallels to Red's comments over the years.

She is taken aback.

Unequivocally stunned.

Her heart clings to his words like a dying man clutching to the last bit of life left within him.

The girl sniffles, snubbing every few beats, immeasurable heartbreak surging down her wind-chapped cheeks.

Tilting his head toward the star-filled sky, Red looks at the bright majesty of the full moon glinting down upon them. He lifts his shaky palm out to the moon to point at it, "Look."

Masha's gaze bounces from him up to the beaming crater in the sky, giving him a faint nod.

"We could have the moon if we wanted it."

Dropping his hand back down to his side, Masha stares at him curiously, her eyes illuminating with innocence and wonder, when she says, "Really? The moon?"

Red gives her a genuinely bright twist of the lips. Seeing her light up as vividly as the night sky is dazzling around them coats him in warm reverence, "Why not?" Red finishes raggedly, his smile dropping as he hoists his tattered outline onto his feet.

Reaching out his hand for her to take, he makes up his mind as to which place would be safest for this little one.

Grabbing his hand, they stride to a space cadet-blue Trans Am in the weakly lit concrete drive. He places Masha inside the passenger seat before settling into the driver's with a screech of pain exiting from his gnarled maw.

As they soar down the highway at an alarmingly high speed, Masha cannot stop gaping at Red as he clenches and unclenches the steering wheel, choking back the violent propensity to howl in painful expulsion. They have been traveling for over an hour now, and the girl is more than a little anxious with their precarious situation, "Mister, where are we going?"

His eyes persistently roll into the back of his sockets, head lolling forward, then jerking awake every few seconds. He is in such unbearable misery that his body is betraying him, shutting down gradually like a top slowing its spin. Random thoughts plague his scattered mind as he guises the inherent fatigue, thinking about how infuriating this kibosh truly has become.

"I'm ta-taking you somewhere safe. We're almost there."

He closes his eyes once more.

"Mister! You have to stay awake!"

"I-I don't think I can . . . "

But, he must, and he knows he must.

Little Masha screams at him again as his head droops forward, eyes shutting on their own accord. She decides she must take action and assist him in any way possible, so she rolls down her window with her delicate arms to let in the harsh December air, then reaches over his lap to roll the driver's side window down in the same manner.

The chilly wind helps Red keep his eyes peeled for a few moments, but then he returns to his previous state of combating the impending darkness beneath his lids that is threatening to annihilate his plan.

Masha watches him slump forward again, so she leans over to twist the knob of the radio, turning up the volume as far as it will go. The melody blares out of the speakers as Red's focus is reaffirmed by the beat of the song and the thunderous voice of Bruce Springsteen pouring into his ear canals:

_The road is dark _

_And it's a thin thin line _

Red lifts his chin to balance his line of sight, widening his eyelids to peer down the highway. The beautiful harmony resonating throughout the car is meaningless to him in this moment.

Nearly three decades from now, it will be the key that unlocks the dimension of otherworldly love the older equivalent of this girl harbors for him._  
_

_But I want you to know I'll walk it for you any time _

_Maybe your other boyfriends _

_Couldn't pass the test _

_Well if you're rough and ready for love _

_Honey I'm tougher than the rest _

Lizzie's perception broadens as the words suck the life from the very essence of her. She has heard this song many times, but somehow, this time it diverges greatly from all the others. It is almost as if she can_ actually recount_ this very moment with Red.

The tune continues as the car makes a few jerky turns, jarring Masha and Red from left to right in their seats. The child looks around as they pull into the gravel driveway of a quaint, single story home. As best as she can tell from the headlights shining on the front of the house, it is white with cobalt shudders, and a dark wooden door.

Red throws the car into park, opening his door with diligence as the pain quakes vehemently without fail through his torso and spine. Masha clings to the tattered stuffed toy, picking at it nervously as she watches him helplessly try to exit the vehicle.

Suddenly, there is an appalling clunk as she loses sight of Red, when he plummets to the ground face-first. Panicking, she yanks on the door handle with fervor, her little fingers pinching as she uses all her might to push the heavy object away from her. Dashing lively over to him, she sees that he is not moving.

The girl whips her head around to the porch of the house and takes off in a clumsily-wild sprint, towing the burnt bunny along with her under her armpit. The sturdy oak stings her tender skin as she uses the palm of her hand to beat on the door. She smacks it so many times that she question if anyone is home.

She opts for rotating the doorknob, when the door flies open in an unexpected flurry. A man in his early thirties stands before her, with his square jaw distended and his slapdash, dishwater-blond hair all disheveled. The man stands there unmoving and slightly perturbed by Masha's petrified expression.

_Sam_, Lizzie calls nostalgically within herself.

"That man—" Masha swings her arm out, jabbing her finger emphatically toward Red on the cold ground beside the car, "—needs help!"

As Sam takes off in a mad scurry for Red, Lizzie's vision through Masha's eyes begins to fade into nothingness, as if someone steadily began turning down the flame of an oil lamp.

Her vision ceases, with her hearing soon following in its stead.

The darkness of night blankets the frontal lobe of Lizzie's brain.

Paralyzing obscurity.

Then, Lizzie hears an unremitting thud.

It is coming from her own chest, the _thump thump thump_ growing faster, louder as she flickers her eyes open to glance about the room wildly.

She is _back_.

* * *

Dr. Orchard is searching her face, anticipating any sign that Lizzie has suffered mental or emotional damage, when Lizzie launches herself from the seat, ripping the leads from her face and chest.

"Wait, Elizabeth! Where are you going? You can't drive in the condition you're in!"

"IhavetoIhaveto," Lizzie blubbers as she stumbles to her feet, making her way toward the door.

"What did you see?! What has you so panicked?"

Reaching the door, Lizzie nearly forgets, turning her head so quickly that her hair whirls around her shoulders like a sundress swirling around the knees of a beautiful girl, "Oh wait, here." Gouging into her pockets, she pulls out five crumpled one-hundred dollar bills. She walks over to Selma, shoving the money in her face, "No. Consider it as a debt that has been paid, especially after everything with Braxton. Elizabeth, I insist." Holding her hands out, palms up as she protests with Lizzie.

"I won't take no for an answer, Dr. Orchard. If it wasn't for you doing this tonight, I wouldn't know where I stand with-" she almost slips out 'Red', but bites her tongue harshly, "-that night and how I have perceived it to be all these months. Take it." Not waiting for the doctor to take the money, she slides it on a small stilted table next to a simple hard-back chair used for patients.

"And, I'm fine. Everything is . . . fine. Thank you again."

The doctor simply smiles in gratitude, eyes brewing with the concern that she has maintained all night.

But, she is not fine. Far from it, in fact. She _must_ find Red. _Now_.

Without another word, Lizzie exits the building hastily and hops into the SUV, her hands shaking so badly that it takes her four attempts to get the damn key into the ignition.

_He saved me. He saved __**me**__. And he suffered so much, for me. He still suffers __**for me**__, _she grieves over and over again.

Lizzie drives like she has never driven before, with the pedal to the floor. Like her life depends on getting to him in this moment, before she impetuously changes her mind about telling him about her experience all together. Her thoughts are ricocheting with immeasurable proclamations she must express to him, yet she has no idea where she will begin. Apologies, tears, and kisses is all she can conjure in her mind. She must tell him how sorry she is, how stupid she has been, how selfish and cruel she had been to him before their reconciliation. She has said so many hurtful things, and he must know that she did not mean them. She could _never_ mean them.

About forty-five minutes later, she pulls into the driveway of the Hempstead House, brakes screeching to a halt.

Nimbly running to the entry of the house, she stretches out her forearm to rap her knuckles, hovering her hand there a beat too long before banging wildly. Her breathing is erratic, skin clammy with fretfulness as she stands there, waiting.

_Oh the irony, now who's desperate?_ Lizzie ruminates as she reverts back to Red showing up at her motel room the previous night, trepidations burning her stomach like she ingested a huge swig of hard liquor.

The wooden entrance parts from the jamb, the warm interior air whooshing into her hair as Raymond Reddington stands before her, clad in a dark blue vest and slightly wrinkled dress shirt, sans tie and suit jacket.

His expression is nothing short of loving, as he silently muses that she is here to stay the night. After all, a sleepover seemed exorbitantly titillating as he bounces the notion between his ears whilst greeting her.

"Lizzie! Hi, sweetheart," he declares as a smile tugs the modest crow's feet upward on his face. His excited expression quickly falters as he concludes that something is very wrong.

Lizzie's eyes are darting between his heedlessly, wetness flicking at the corners as she swallows the generous lump in her esophagus. She does not know what to say in this moment.

"Come in, come on, tell me what is wrong, Lizzie. What is it? What's happened?" he pleads with her, almost child-like, as if he were a small boy begging for clarification. He wraps his fingers around her forearm to tug her gingerly into his transitory home.

As Lizzie enters the house, the smell of old books and stale coffee permeate her senses. Standing in the foyer as she inhales deeply to gain her composure, she voices her thoughts at last, "I need to talk to you. Right now. It's import—_very_ important." She emphasizes, knowing the gravity of the situation cannot be quantified or calculated. The premise of loss and hope and pain collide within her chest, the sensations nearing the precipice of intolerable.

Red takes Lizzie by the hand to lead her past the kitchen. Before shuffling past the doorjamb, she has to do a double take to gawk at the two bubbly individuals she spots playing a round of gin rummy at the dining table.

Dembe and Mr. Kaplan lift their eyes from their cards to Lizzie's bewildered face in tandem. She lifts her free hand gracelessly to give them both a little wave paired with a brisk smile.

Kate smirks boldly, proffering a meaningful nod to Lizzie as she looks over her trapezoid-rimmed glasses. Still holding her playing cards in front of her, she kicks Dembe under the table. A minute yelp of displeasure is heard from the handsomely dark man as she strains to speak through fixed lips and gritted teeth, "Look at that. It's about damn time."

Dembe displays a ridiculously toothy grin, "You didn't know?"

Kate retorts, "How could I have known? I'm barely around as it is, dearie. Unless of course, there are bodies to bury. Or exhume. Tonight being one of the few exceptions I've made to be around the likes of you two."

Lizzie smiles despite her coy demeanor, shaking her head as she hears giggling erupt behind her, knowing but not quite caring that she is the subject of their guffawing. Red tows her to the last door on the right, pushing it open with a protracted creak.

As she enters behind him, she slams the door shut with the outer rim of her shoe, then turns sharply to flatten him against the wall bordering the door.

"Come to finish what you started this morning, I see." The rich gravelly texture of his low tenor ripples all the way down to her center, "If I had known what this had been about, I would've kicked out Kate and Dembe hours ago to ensure our privacy."

Their humid breaths blend as she nears his pursed mouth, pausing reluctantly while she clutches her sleek palms onto either side of the naturally-tanned flesh of his neck. _Tell him first, Liz. You have to_, she demands to herself, her eyes closing to revel in the moment while she can.

Lizzie huffs a tense laugh a mere inch from his divided lips, but refuses to take the bait, "Something happened tonight. And before you say one word, I just want you to listen. Can you do that . . . for me?"

"Lizzie, you're really beginning to worry me now."

"_Will_ you do it?" she bites, growing more impatient with each overwrought moment.

Blowing stringently through his nostrils, Red gives her a terse nod, skimming his hands around the slenderness of her waist. He lowers his brows briefly, seeking to soften the blow of the shock and surprise, and possible heartache, of what is to follow.

As more of a reassurance than anything, Red reaches out to tuck the clumsy auburn strands behind the curvature of her ear, the corners of his lips pulling to give her a supportive smirk.

Lizzie cranes her hand around to the back pocket of her jeans, recovering her cell phone. Red simply stares at her as she taps the screen several times, his lashes holding fast, unblinking. Before he has the chance to mutter anything, sound begins emitting from the device. She holds it up, walking over to the rickety nightstand beside the queen size bed to prop it up between the vintage marble lamp and a stack of manuscripts.

As the guitar chords and vocals roar from the small speaker, recognition floods Red's mannerisms, his posture immediately tensing in detection of her discovering some parcel of the truth.

_Well it's Saturday night  
You're all dressed up in blue  
I've been watching you awhile_

"It was playing that night wasn't it?"

_Maybe you've been watching me too_

_And so somebody ran out_

"You were taking me to Sam, and before we got there, this song was on the radio. I was trying—," Lizzie loses control, the vision of his scorched and mangled form still projecting images behind the lenses of her eyes, while the lyrics from the song jolt through her consciousness like an unremitting gale.

_Left somebody's heart in a mess_

_Well if you're looking for love_

She reaches up to her brow with the tips of her fingers as tears manifest beneath her lashes once again, covering her face before she musters the strength to continue.

_Honey, I'm tougher than the rest_

"—trying to keep you awake. You had been burnt . . . so badly . . . " Lizzie stops as Red looks at her with interminable pain brewing in his glazy sea greens, the wounds of that night being torn open from the bottom of his soul, catapulting him back to when they both suffered more than any one person should.

He does not move from the wall, but rather glares at her with his stricken features that are beginning to weigh heavy on her heart. It is the exact look he gave her after Tom had been cleared by the task force. She had told him to go to hell, and the hurt that was heavy under his eyes was unmistakable. But, there was a very different meaning behind his expression now.

Several puzzle pieces click into place.

She rushes to him as the song proceeds, grabbing each side of his face as she chokes back the whimpers lodged in her throat, "And your face. Your face was . . . different. I realized that you had plastic surgery to make sure that I, along with others, didn't recognize you after all these years. Look, I know what you did for me. I don't know why you were there, and I don't care. It doesn't matter anymore. All that matters is _this_. _Us_."

"I'm sorry, Lizz—," She interrupts by slamming her lips over his, sucking them into her mouth as she prods her moist tongue between his teeth. The saltiness of tears is pleasing to their taste, sealing their love with the pain of the past, absolution of the now, and hope of the future.

She jerks backward abruptly with a pop of their lips, jutting her head back to see torrential teardrops spurting his face.

"_No, I_ am sorry for all of the horrible things I have said to you, Red. You didn't deserve any of it. I was such a selfish bitch to you, and I _am truly_ sorry. You only tried to help me, only tried to show me the way of our world, and how my past fits into all of it. Granted you used me because of me having access to the task force's resources, but I knew from the get-go that you had your own agenda. And I understand why you do it. Now, take off your shirt. Please."

His eyes go wide, fear welling in them as he remains unresponsive. This moment feels so surreal that Red is scared to do a single thing except stand there. He had always thought that there was a chance she would never accept him physically because of his monstrous disfigurement, and is utterly flabbergasted that she wants to see him fully exposed.

"Please . . . Lizzie," he practically begs, imploring that she be merciful and understanding. The humiliation alone would be too much for him to bear, and would be a crushing blow to what little dignity he has left tonight.

"You can't hide from me forever. Please, Red. No more talking. Take it off."

Without another word, he unfastens the top button of his crinkled pallid dress shirt. Then, the second. When he gets to the third, she stops his movements, cupping her hands over his and peering up at him.

He bores sensuous daggers into her glistening ocean-blues, his face asking a question that she answers for him.

"Allow me."

He prays for acceptance. He prays for forgiveness, hoping she really means everything she has said and what is transpiring between them.

Lizzie finishes with his shirt, then motions for him to lift his arms to rid him of his undershirt. She tosses it absentmindedly behind her as she basks in the view before her. She can already imagine what it is going to feel like to glide her breasts longingly against the magnificent curls of his dark blonde chest hair.

She runs her cheek alongside his, the juxtaposing of their textures coiling gooseflesh down her abdomen. "Turn around for me," she whispers hotly in his ear. Red exhibits a short hiss at the arousal he is already experiencing, and they have yet to even disrobe completely. The anticipation is killing them both, but Lizzie feels duty-bound to pay her proper respects to this man whom has been her unwavering sacrificial lamb for all these years.

Red slowly revolves warily, as she stands there bracing herself for the onslaught of never-ending emotional wreckage she feels she is about to suffer.

The moon shining in from the window illuminates his bare upper body, the radiance glistening across the raised sinewy tissue that Lizzie is now facing. The collision of turmoil squeezes her heart with vigor, the knot in her throat swelling until she finally allows the quiet whimpers to release themselves.

He bears the vulnerable pieces of himself willingly, until there is nothing contentious left between them. Only scars and retrospections of sacrifice and altruism. All for _her_.

Without warning, Lizzie leans forward, pushing her wet lips to the gap between his shoulder blades. She peppers gentle kisses over every part she can touch.

They are filled with absolution.

Gratitude.

Adoration.

Worshiping the markings of his skin as if he is the living, breathing form of salvation to her burdened spirit.

Her heart swells with overwhelming relief and joy that he is alive, that he is here with her now. She feels forever indebted to him for saving her, and knows that no amount of apologies or thank you's could ever repay him for what he did for her.

She wraps her hands around his waist to embrace him from behind, laying her head in the center of the scarred etchings as she exhales a mitigated sigh.

"You saved me," her voice cracking as she embraces Red roughly, and the more she squeezes, the more she wants to cry.

Red turns his head a few degrees so she can better hear his words, smiling sadly as he does it, "No. If it hadn't been for you, I would've died right there. You were worth every second of pain I endured. You still are. And you always will be, Lizzie. If I had to do it again, I would. Over and over. That's what you mean to me. I would endure hell on earth, for _you_."

Lizzie retracts her arms from his waist, twisting his hips toward her to motion him around to face her, "I believe you already have."

"And I will continue to do so until the day I die."

The song finally ends as they cry in unison, tear for tear, both giving one another keen glares of admiration and arduous infatuation. Their kisses begin with tiny nips and nibbles, steadily exceeding into lust-fueled desire.

He returns the ravaging of his lips by framing her face with the palms of his smooth adequate hands, allowing her tongue entrance as he angles his chin for better access. Their tongues dance euphorically together, aching for more, both dueling for supremacy over their engrossing circumstances.

The suction of their disconnection is the only audible sound in the silvery-blue moonlight. As Lizzie backs away from Red slowly, his penetrating gaze consumes her as both their chests heave. With irrepressible electrical currents coursing through their veins, neither of them are not quite prepared for the symbolic fire they will be igniting between them.

Lizzie tugs her shirt over her head in one swipe, letting it fall from her fingers to the floor beside her feet. Toeing off her shoes and socks in record time, she starts on her black pants, unbuttoning them with such fervor that she nearly cracks a fingernail against the zipper. She exits from her work slacks in a rush, yanking them off as Red stands there, powerless to move anything except for his drifting eyes.

Red is beguiled by Lizzie in her matching fire engine red underthings as the voice in his head speaks up, _She_ _looks rapturously divine in quite literally my namesake_, smirking proudly despite himself. His irises wander to the curves of her décolletage that highlight her magnificently structured torso, down to the silky surface of her ivory belly, then finally rest on the skinny bikini-style panties that hug her in all the most decadent of places.

He licks his lips eagerly, like a dog awaiting a delicious treat his master so carefully prepared for him. Meanwhile, his trousers become less and less comfortable with every passing moment that Lizzie decides to torture him. He reaches down to unbuckle his belt, then loosens his pants with fluid grace.

Her eyes never leave his, their resolute gazes locked in place like the solidity of statues, permanent and stationery. They no longer fear the consequences of their love. No. They fear that once they _have_ one another, that they will not be able to get enough.

The kinetic waves of vehemence flowing between them alone should be deemed illicit and detrimental for the human body, considering that they both feel as if they could be jolted into cardiac arrest at any given time.

Red plucks his leather Italian shoes from his feet, kicking them aside as he peels off his socks in the same manner. He sheds his suit pants roughly, throwing them over the newly-upholstered armchair situated under the window.

In tandem, Red and Lizzie anxiously shimmy off their undergarments as their gazes wander over the other's taut frames. They are both gawking, both mouths separate as they admire the most divine of views they could ever dream.

Red's rigidness is prominent, standing at full attention, discerning that he belongs exclusively to Lizzie. She is the only woman that could ever have him nearly coming all over himself before he was even able to get to second base.

She looks down on him, eyes wide with shameless gusto, standing there in all her glory. Nipples peaking and hairs standing up on end, Red can no longer take it. He closes the distance between them, hooking one arm under the back of her thigh to lift her up onto his core, with the other slithering its way around her limber lower waist just above her ass.

She lets out an elongated, boisterous moan as he runs the fleshy wet muscle of his mouth along her collarbone, licking his way to the bottom of her earlobe. He carries over to the right side of the bedroom, fiercely hoisting her up onto his lap as he presses her against the wall. The curls of his surprisingly-soft chest swab against the hardened tips of her succulent mounds as he grinds against her trickling dampness.

Red takes her arms that are swathed around his shoulders, and pins them against the wall, restraining her mischievously. He smiles with contentment, satisfied with the position in which he has her. She returns his smugness with some of her own, grating her moistness on the underside of his twitching erection teasingly. He growls in her ear, the tenor evoking her to whimper aloud in ecstasy as her feminine sweet spot begins to coat layers of sultry fluid between them.

"You don't play fair, Lizzie," he rumbles, releasing his grip on her so she can regain her balance for the actual act.

She giggles under her breath, clasping his back for leverage and lifting herself up a bit so he can insert himself within her. Leaning forward before slipping inside, he sucks and nibbles at the savory morsels of her neck to pull the blood to the surface in a purplish hue, marking her as his own.

Retracting his mouth from her, Red lovingly tilts his head to cover her engorged lips with his own, raking his tongue tangibly slow against hers. He decides to take their pace at a leisurely rate, desiring so badly to live in this moment for as long as time would allow.

Lizzie hums in satisfaction as their mouths tango, fully aware of the painstakingly sluggish tempo of their actions, her body battling with her heart to go faster as her blood begins to simmer.

Red stops his ministrations a moment to look her face, their glazed-over orbs bouncing back and forth. Words are being spoken without voices, attaching themselves in the vast cavernous walls of their pounding hearts.

He leans forward, stopping just shy of grazing her parted mouth while his lashes flutter shut, "I love you, Lizzie," Red breaths more than speaks.

She returns the sentiment without verbalizing it, instead she draws his reddened bottom lip between her teeth, gnawing on it gently only to release it with a stifled pop.

He props her higher on the wall, placing his hand between them to direct his way past her folds to her opening. She angles the crown of her head into a more appropriate pose, running her right hand up the length of his stout arms all the way to the back of his neck, clamping her fingers tautly around the base of his bristly hairline.

As he enters her gradually, Red watches her face contort and transform several times, finally landing on the state of arousal he was waiting for, past the uncomfortable moment of entrance. The tightness around his cock is unbearable, pleasure concussing through their lower halves as Red leans his forehead against hers. He is wanting so badly to thrust into her wildly, but he resists such an urge. He does not move for several seconds, but exchanges heavy moans with the beautiful creature that is tangled around him, their limbs shuddering as their pulses skyrocket. He wants to make love to her all night long, if they are both able to sustain themselves.

With bated breaths, they hold their positions for a beat longer, Lizzie finally relaxing around his throbbing inside of her slick, tight walls.

The first stroke elicits a heady whimper from her gaping mouth, as Red lunges his face forward to slather hot open-mouthed kisses along her jaw line, descending to the muscles of her shoulders, then widens his jaws to clamp down on her with his teeth. He grasps the top of her hips, drawing back easily as he begins making easy strides inside of her dripping crevice. He exhales a breathy moan, fighting the temptation of spilling himself inside of her this soon.

Red spontaneously decides he wants to take her on the bed. After all, it would be far more comfortable for the both of them, since they would wind up with significantly sore bodies if they continued in this manner.

He encases her in his arms, her weight bearing down on his biceps and waist. Lizzie appears a bit perplexed, but then realizes what his intentions are. Without breaking the intimate connection of their bodies, he lays her on the downy blankets of the bed, then places his arms on either side of her head to bend down and give her a small albeit romantic kiss.

Surprisingly, there is very little talking between them. Red is so lost in this moment with Lizzie that he is trying to absorb every facet of her enchanting flesh.

Every blemish, every scar.

The dip in her hip bones.

The way her stomach recedes as she lay on the bed flat.

She grins wildly, shooting her hands up to his face before he has a chance to retreat and holds him there, rubbing her thumbs over the outline of his swollen lips, "Hey. I hope you know I will be getting my turn soon."

Red chuckles, "Oh Lizzie, we have only just begun. The night is still young, and besides, we have yet to break in this bed. Or the desk chair. Or the dresser."

Lizzie snickers cutely, but then, her face falls into a more serious expression.

"What's wrong?"

Her eyelids well with moisture, and Red sees that she is on the verge of crying again, "Hey, hey. What is it, sweetheart?"

"Nothing. That's just it. Nothing is wrong. Everything is right. For the first time, in a very long time. I love you more than I could ever tell you. More than I could ever show you. And I could never be more grateful to have you in my life, despite our circumstances. Despite the way we officially met."

He bites the inside of his cheek, attempting to portray his next words emphatically so she will realize the significance of them, "It was fate, Lizzie. We were _destined_ to be. Regardless of all the horrors we have both endured, this was always supposed to happen. In this life, the one before, and the one proceeding this one. We will always find our way to one other, no matter the cost."

The weight of his words settle into her core, underscoring the memory that shattered everything she assumed she ever knew about Raymond Reddington. Lizzie finally recognizes that he is the very embodiment of selflessness.

"What you said to me that night. That we could do anything? Have . . . anything? Do you still mean it?"

Situating himself more amply between her velvety legs, he begins sliding his throbbing manhood in and out of her as he replies, "Yes. Of course I still mean it. Whatever you want, whatever you need. I will always be here, Lizzie. And together, we are pretty unstoppable. We _do_ make a great team. You and I."

Her eyes turn up into the backs of her lids, reaching up to yank cravingly on the short-coiled hairs of his sternum while he plunges deeper into her center. Red breathes through his nose heavily, parting his lips with each emphasized submersive impulsion, the veins in his temples beginning to protrude as his thrusting becomes more determined.

Mid-stride, Lizzie leans up to whisper sublimely, "I want you to fuck me from behind, can you handle that?" With a sinking exhalation, Red halts his maneuvers at the absolute astonishment her words have on his body.

He nearly loses it right then and there, her improvisations never ceasing to dazzle him and leave his senses thirsting for more.

Red pulls out of her succulence halfhearted, running his right hand in between her legs, lightly rubbing effective circles over her clit, then pushing two fingers into her just so he can watch her writhe beneath him. She slides her hand past her side, angling her body enough to reach his rock-hard stiffness. Reaching next to the hand that is inserted into her, she rubs her palm against herself, gathering her natural fluids to use for him. She glides her talented fingers slowly up and down the length of his cock, watching as he throws his head back, his mouth unhinging to let loose a pent-up moan of provocation.

Lizzie revels in the sight, the unfathomable sexiness of what he is doing is turning her on so much that she knows she could come without any prior indications. The stickiness of the beading droplets make her mouth go dry as she runs her thumb over the basin of his convexing tip.

Red nonchalantly removes her hand from his tingling firmness, shaking his head and twirling his forefinger in a circle to ensure her that he is going to give her what she demands.

Lizzie admonishes a broad grin, spinning her body around on the bed to push her ass back toward his lower half. The view he has from behind is one of sheer paradise, and he begins to wonder if what is happening is even real, because it seems all too good to be true.

He squeezes each cheek with tempest-like passion, then runs his hands up to her hips, gripping them zealously as he reaches between their bodies to slip his thumb over her pulsating sweetness. Pulling her back toward his hardness, Red slides his right hand from her tailbone all the way up to her shoulder to make goosebumps instantaneously spread over her body.

He encourages her movements back toward his torso, inciting her to lean against him so her back is pressed upon the broadness of his chest. He sneaks a hand around to her front, skidding a few fingers over the thick sheen of nectar, then withdrawing to spread it over the head of himself.

Her back brushes against the fine kinks of his chest hair viciously while Red's stiffness penetrates her core once more. He grabs her jaws with one hand, turning her head toward him. He stops for a moment and sits dormant inside of her, then shoves his humid tongue inside of her mouth as Lizzie revolves her neck, grabbing the back of his scalp to push his mouth into hers.

He wraps an arm around her upper torso, craning up to squeeze her pointy nipples. As he releases her face with his tongue retreating from her mouth, she breathes heavily into him while he is still grazing her lips, their eyelashes fluttering shut simultaneously, "You feel so good inside of me."

"Hmm I know, Lizzie. Are you ready?" he grunts, fearing if he moves too quickly he may fill her to the brim with his release prematurely.

"I don't think I've ever been more ready for anything in my life."

Lightning surges through Red's body, shooting straight to his length that is buried inside of her. The smell of sex floods his nostrils as he inhales sharply, fueling his primal, insatiable need to make Lizzie _his_.

His strokes start out steady and deliberate, concentrating on the way her body glides over his own. The risqué noise of repetitive slapping Lizzie's ass makes against his hips spurs him on, forcing him to pitch forward and muffle the rumble of his pleasurable cries in her tussled hair.

Lizzie reaches behind her to clasp onto his exceptionally prominent butt, noisily choking out his name several times. Strangled moans of delirium exit her gaping mouth, encouraging him to pick up the pace.

At this rate, he knows neither of them will last much longer, but fortunately, they do not have anywhere to be until the morning. He could not care less about anything else in this moment. Screw the Blacklisters. Screw the task force. If Dembe walked in right now and said the next target on the list was in town, he would tell him that it could wait, and to get the hell out.

Red penetrates her wetness with such ease, going faster and more erratic now. She is practically screaming, and tells him she is about to come.

It is all the confirmation he needs.

He pounds his cock into her with reckless abandon, slamming into her backside over and over again. A thin film of sweat beads at the top of his forehead as the swelling release begins to build at the base of his hardness.

Lizzie's engorged muscular walls tighten around him, signaling to him that it is time for him to let go as well. She leans her head back onto his shoulder, propping her flushed face against his ear. He bangs into her saturation one last time as he skims his fingers over her belly to pry an irresistible response from her.

She begins to shudder around his superior girth, her limbs launching behind her to cling onto the sides of his slick thighs. Red clamps his tenacious palms down onto her shoulders, holding her in place while he spills himself inside of her hotly. They both discharge trembling cries of fulfilled desire, bodies jerking to and fro against one another as they revel in the attainment of their fantasies.

Red gradually withdraws himself from her and embraces her from behind. He runs his fingertips up and down the length of her arms, then presses feather-light kisses to her temple.

Lizzie crawls up further onto the bed to draw back the covers, climbing beneath them as Red stares at her from the opposite end.

She blows a few straggly hairs out of her face, propping her hand behind her head.

"What is it?"

He follows suit, crawling up to spoon her from behind under the cool sheets, "Oh nothing, sweetheart. Just admiring the view, that's all."

"Yeah, sure," Lizzie retorts, chortling aloud as Red pulls her body flush with his.

The pair lay there a few minutes, attempting to catch their breaths. Red ever so often presses his lips to the underside of her ear, eliciting low grumbles from Lizzie, trying to stir her desire once more, and apparently succeeding.

"As late as it is, I'm surprised that you aren't ready to collapse after all . . ._that_. Wow," Lizzie mumbles playfully.

"You should know by now that I'm more youthful that I appear, my dear. In every way."

"I didn't mean it like that, Red."

"I know, sweetheart, it's okay. Turn over here. Let me see you."

Lizzie bumpily revolves onto her other side to face him.

He traces soft lines up her jawline, over her cheekbones, under her eye sockets, then finally pauses at the corners of her rosy lips.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Mmhmm."

"It's okay if you don't want to know right this moment . . . but, you know that I cannot shed any light on the details of that night. Or the reason why your parents were in trouble. It runs deeper than what I'm about to tell you, but your family lineage has a great deal to do with it."

She holds the air from her lungs inside of her esophagus, afraid to exhale in fear of having the breath knocked out of her by two revelations in one night. Eyeing him curiously, she nods while she replies, "Okay . . . so? What does that mean?"

Red creeps forward, ghosting his lips gently over hers, then says, "It means, that you are from a regal family, Lizzie. Royalty. Your family lineage traces all the way back to the second imperial dynasty of Russia."

Her pupils double in width, her irises barely visible to Red in the receding flares of moonlight. Lizzie is shell-shocked. But, the more she mulls it over in her mind, the more logic takes hold. Why they were after her that night. Why she is of great importance to some very prominent people. Why some of those people want her to no longer exist.

She lifts her quivering palm out to his face, her orbs tracing over the lines in his lips, "Not to sound arrogant, but somehow, and I don't know how, but somehow I'm not that surprised. I knew it had to be something rather significant. And honestly? It doesn't matter, because whatever is thrown our way, we will figure it out. Together."

"You're taking this surprisingly well, Lizzie. But, for the record, it is a big deal. A very big deal." Red whispers worriedly, his brows arching in confusion.

Lizzie shakes her head with haste, "Red, all I care about right now is being with you. I'm not worried about _me_ anymore. I've figured out that that's when you know you truly love someone. When you put their life ahead of your own. And you live your life, for them."

The gravity of her words could never ring more true in Red's mind. He feels lucky, blessed to have this woman in his life, and to know that he will have her for as long as she will allow, for as long as she is willing to put up with him.

Lizzie has found her missing piece; the void in her fraught soul that she has been trying to fill her entire life, and it was in the form of a man on the wrong side of the law whom has carried the scars and atrocities of many.

A man who would drain his own blood dry, expel his last breath for the simple hope of a better tomorrow for this woman.

She lunges her chin toward him, giving him an agonizingly sensual kiss. Pulling back slightly, Red palms the side of her head, "Oh, no you don't. Come here. We aren't quite finished yet, sweetheart. I already told you, we still have many other pieces of furniture to christen."

* * *

**PS.** Very long, yes. It became a MONSTER! Thank you for your follows/faves/reviews/comments! Hope you enjoyed it! PLEASEEEE review! Please?! Thanks for reading!

**Disturbing Fact**: _Nero Claudius Caesar Augustus Germanicus _was the psychopathic fifth emperor of the Roman Empire from 54-68 AD who did everything mentioned by Lizzie and Red, and then some. He was responsible for heinous crimes [including but not limited to] like the Great Fire of Rome (he blamed it on the Christians), and was notorious for murdering his own family members, particularly his first two wives, Octavia (his stepsister) and Poppaea (allegedly), and his mother Agrippina the Younger. His vicious reign as Caesar came to an end when he locked himself in his room and slit his own throat before the Praetorian Guards could deliver justice to him for his crimes. He was perhaps one of the biggest douchebags in all of human history, next to Stalin and Hitler.


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